


Not Gonna Stand Here and Wait

by ukiyo91, yukonecho (yavanna)



Series: Heroes [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hero!AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 13:44:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukiyo91/pseuds/ukiyo91, https://archiveofourown.org/users/yavanna/pseuds/yukonecho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The masked man’s eyes narrow, and Geno’s not sure if he should still be worried, or what the appropriate reaction even is when a vigilante with a fondness for two-toned leather intervenes in your mugging. They didn’t prepare him for this in Russia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Gonna Stand Here and Wait

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the awesome slashneggs for Black Hawk!
> 
> Once again, we finished this when the sun came up. Also once again, liberties were taken, including how crime-fighting in Pittsburgh actually works.
> 
> Just remember, Sid is so Canadian it hurts.

Geno honestly has no idea how it came to this. Standing in a dark alleyway, not four hours after getting off the plane in Pittsburgh from Russia, and being confronted by two masked men, with guns.

Geno wonders why they targeted the 6-foot-4, 200 pound former KHL player for a mugging, but he guesses that things are different here in America and sighs, thinking, not for the first time, that he took a wrong turn somewhere in life to get to this point.

“I have no money,” he tries to explain, holding his hands up by his face, and Goon #1 cocks his head to the side and Geno is acutely aware of the nice leather jacket he put on this morning, the watch he inherited from his grandfather and the polished shine of his leather shoes. So much for wanting to make a good impression on his future employers.

“I think I’m gonna have to disagree,” retorts Goon #2, whose casual grip on the gun and leisurely stance makes him all the more threatening.

Geno, who has modeled his life on simple predictabilities, gauging his goals and his aspirations with a keen sense of pragmatism, honestly has no idea how this is going to play out--

\--which makes it both a relief and a bother when a voice from the shadows states, “Gentlemen. Please put down your guns and walk away.”

Geno and Goons the First and Second turn and watch as a shape emerges from the dark corner of the alley, treading slowly in thick boots. It’s a man, wearing a tight (jeez, really tight) leather suit, white in the front but black in the back, with oval-shaped flaps hanging from his arms, which stretch out by his hips. He wears a black mask, covering his nose, forehead and hair. The result is something sleek and compact, and Geno take a moment to appreciate the sheer oddness of this moment, before the Goons begin to groan.

“Seriously? You’re fucking everywhere, man,” Goon #1 complains, “Can’t a guy catch a break?”

The masked man’s eyes narrow, and Geno’s not sure if he should still be worried, or what the appropriate reaction is when an apparent vigilante with a fondness for two-toned leather intervenes in your mugging. They didn’t prepare him for this in Russia.

“What you’re doing is against the law. This innocent man,” the masked man gestures to Geno, and he tries to look suitably innocent, “Has done nothing to warrant this treatment. If you don’t put down the guns and leave now, I will have to take action.”

The goons apparently decide that they want to see how this will play out as well, because their guns swing away from Geno and towards the masked man--

\--who lets out a sigh, as though these petty criminals have disappointed them in some deep, personal way, and faster than Geno or the goons can comprehend, the masked man reaches into his practical white leather toolbelt and flings two round, disk-like objects with perfect precision in the direction of both goons.

The disks--and upon further review, Geno speculates that they look more like hockey pucks--explode upon impact, launching the goons backward while dispersing a cloud of white smoke that makes Geno’s eyes water.

Fast as a flash, the masked man is on the criminals, yanking the guns out of their hands and expertly disabling them with a few quick jabs of his fists. They fall to the floor, unconscious, and the masked man cooly takes some thin wire from his tool belt to tie them together.

He then, and Geno holds back a slightly hysterical laugh, reaches into a pocket, takes out a cell phone, and promptly dials 911.

“Yes, this is the Penguin,” the masked man waits patiently, seemingly used to this routine, “No, I’m not turning myself in, Carol, I wanted to inform the Pittsburgh police that there are two apprehended criminals in the alleyway between Houston and Pine who were intercepted in the course of an attempted armed mugging of a civilian,” the man nods towards Geno, who can only nod back.

“Yes, he will be on the scene for questioning. Thank you for your time, Carol, and give my regards to the good folks on the force.” The masked man hangs up and turns to Geno, who looks between his leather-clad savior and the unconscious thugs, and is suddenly relieved that his English isn’t that great and won’t have to do much talking.

The masked man approaches Geno, after picking up his weaponized hockey pucks from where they’ve settled on the ground. “Are you alright, sir?”

Geno nods, nonplussed. “Yes. Very good you were here. Saved my life,” he reaches out a hand, because his mother always taught him to be courteous and respectful, and the masked man hesitates before grasping it in a firm shake.

“It was no problem. I’m sorry those guys gave you trouble.”

Geno evaluates the man before him, or at least what he can see of him. The guy’s at least four inches shorter than he is, but is firmly built, the leather doing nothing to hide the muscles in his abdomen and lower body. Geno is then distracted by the partially-hidden face that studies him with similar interest.

His lips, Geno decides, are worth this entire unpleasant experience. They’re red, plump and totally at odds with his square jaw and straight nose. The man’s eyes are a thoughtful hazel, and the focus in his gaze pings something inside Geno, but suddenly he is aware of the adrenaline leaving his body, making him feel shaky and nauseous.

The masked man seems to sense this, because he reaches forward--hand still grasping Geno’s--and eases Geno down so he can sit on a wooden container to his right.

“I’m sure that was a scary experience. Are you from around here?” the masked man asks.

“No,” he replies thinly, “Just got here. From small city in Russia, Magnitogorsk. You know?”

“Um,” Geno watches with a hint of amusement, as the masked man tries to pronounce the name and fails. “No, I unfortunately don’t. But you were lucky I was here to lend a hand; things are a bit different in this city. You should be more vigilant in the future.”

Geno can’t tell if the man is chiding him or not, but nods and lets the silence stretch before he asks, “You are superhero? Like in movies, yes? I can tell from the...outfit,” Geno lets his eyes sweep up and down the body of his savior, and no, his eyes don’t linger on how tight the torso is, but the masked man reddens anyway, before he continues, “Not sure what kind of superhero you are, though. Can’t tell from design.”

“Really?” The masked man asks, looking faintly surprised, “Oh, I guess I thought it was obvious. I’m uh...” now the man looks a little shy, maybe embarrassed, “Well, I’m not really a superhero, per say. I mean, I don’t have superpowers. I’m just a good samaritan, that’s all. But people around here call me the Penguin.”

“You are Penguin?” Geno asks, with a furrow in his brow.

The Penguin, if that’s actually his name, sighs, head dropping. “Yes, I know I share a name with the Batman villain. But I really feel attached to the identity, and I fight for good, not evil!” The Penguin looks earnestly up at Geno before admitting, softly, “I really...didn’t want to let the name go.”

Geno doesn’t know why the Penguin is confessing all this to a random stranger, but doesn’t want to break the odd intimacy of the moment, and his eyes are drawn, once again to the Penguin’s masked face, hoping to find some answers there.

The Penguin meets his eyes, and looks away. Sirens begin to howl in the distance and the Penguin stands up from where he was crouched over Geno, and says, “The police here are good. They just aren’t enough. If you ever are in trouble, look for Vero or Kunitz on the force. Give them my name. And you can trust Bylsma too. But like I said, be vigilant.”

Geno feels like he’s just spent the last 30 minutes in the twilight zone, and replies, “Don’t often get into trouble. But thank you anyway.”

“You’re welcome...” The Penguin trails off, once again looking shy, and Geno realizes what the man wants.

“Evgeni. But, uh, friends call me Geno.” And this man is a friend, yes? He did just save his life, and gave Geno the most excitement he’s had outside of hockey since he retired. And, of course, his lips.

“Geno,” the Penguin nods, as if locking the knowledge away somewhere safe and turns around, giving Geno a glimpse of the most spectacular ass he’s ever seen, encased in black leather, before the Penguin dashes back into the shadows and out of sight.

Well, Geno decides as the cops arrive and the goons begin to stir, that was certainly interesting.

\--------

Geno’s first day at the office starts out less, er, interestingly, than his first night in the States, thank god. For a city that professes to be safe, getting mugged on his first night is not a good start for Pittsburgh.

Not that meeting the Penguin was a problem, Geno muses, and takes a moment to recall the Penguin’s rear end as he stands in the elevator--because he can. Now that’s he’s left the KHL and Russia’s rules over who you can love (or lust for), he can afford to be choosy about his partners.

Not that he’s particularly fond of the idea of coming out over here, either, but it’ll be a little safer than in Russia. Plus, he watched bootleg copies of Queer as Folk enough times to imagine Pittsburgh will at least have a community of sorts for people like him. At least nobody here will try to shank him in the middle of the night--and well, if they try to, the Penguin will be there to save him again.

Geno’s morning starts off pretty well: he gets to his desk and the view from the window is lovely; The Pittsbugh Post-Gazette overlooks much of the city and some parks as well. He had read somewhere that Pittsburgh had a sister city in Russia, and the harsh steel of the skyscrapers sends Geno back for a moment to being in the office of the KHL, looking out over a city like this one, arguing to be let go, fighting over a knee injury that wasn’t going to get better. He still hasn’t resolved the whole leaving-the-KHL thing, but it doesn’t seem like it’s going to get any worse the longer he waits and it’s not like he’s defecting to play anywhere else. Not on this knee, at least.

Geno exhales slowly. This is where he is now, and it’s not a bad city. For every few thugs, he thinks, there’s at least the Penguin.

\--------

His boss, Mario, has been pretty decent so far. Geno’s English isn’t great, yet, but Mario just waves it off. “No worries,” he adds, when Geno tries to apologize. “We didn’t bring you over to speak English, we brought you over because you speak Russian and know hockey. We’re getting more and more imports these days, so it’s good to have a native speaker amongst our ranks. Anyway, your partner can proofread for you.”

Partner? Geno must have missed something along the way; however, he admits to himself, it was a bit of a rushed process.

“This is Sidney Crosby,” Mario says, gesturing to a tall, muscular man wearing a hideous chartreuse scarf, at the desk next to Geno’s.

The man, Sidney, looks up and blinks a few times at Geno, then smiles widely, if awkwardly, and sticks his hand out. “Nice to meet you,” he adds, and his voice rings a bell in Geno’s memory. “Call me Sid.”

“Geno,” Geno replies, slowly running his eyes over Sid’s face. It looks really familiar, he realizes, but Geno can’t quite place it. It’s not the eyes, he knows, so is it--the lips?

“I’ll give you today and maybe tomorrow to get settled.” Mario interrupts, clapping Sid on the back and distracting Geno from his contemplation. Sid gives Geno a warm grin, which Geno is more than happy to return.

It could work here, he remembers thinking during that long plane ride over the Atlantic, and he is happy to realize that it might actually be true.

\-------

It turns out that working with a partner is pretty great. Sid’s meticulous, which comes in handy when Geno’s working with broken English and enough jet lag to drop a horse. It manifests mostly during conversations with his co-workers, and he feels shy and embarrassed over his occasional failure to include important words, but most of the guys wave it off. Yet Geno’s really glad when, after a few days, he’s finally adjusted to the eight-hour time difference and can converse with more confidence.

Sid walks in and plops a coffee down on Geno’s desk, humming something Geno doesn’t know. That’s one thing Geno doesn’t think he’ll be able to give up, even though he might not need it quite as much--who is he kidding, he needs it more than ever--and Geno certainly likes the Sid-getting-him-coffee thing.

“Lots of coffee,” Geno starts slowly, “I should get for you.”

Sid looks up from where he’d already immersed himself in his daily readings of hockey blogs, Capgeek.com, and the stat page on the NHL website. Geno has those same pages open on his laptop, in Russian, but ignores them in favor of watching his co-worker smile and blush. “No, it’s fine,” Sid says, and Geno gets the impression that he likes the routine.

“Must pay for you something. I buy you dinner.” Geno’s proud of that sentence, and also pleased with how he managed to ask Sid out without it sounding too much like a date. He doesn’t even know if Sid’s gay, but with an ass like that--Geno spends a lot of time watching it sway around the office--there’s gotta be something going on. Sid keeps in good shape, Geno thinks, and he takes a moment to wonder why before going back to just appreciating.

Sid looks at Geno, and Geno’s not quite sure what to make of his facial expression. It might be anxiety, which he knows Sid is capable of, but it also might be pleasure, which he sure hopes Sid is capable of.

“You are hockey reporter for long time?” Geno asks, aiming for small talk, because Sid now looks a little constipated with his inability to figure out what to say next. He’ll take Sid’s lack of answer over the topic of dinner as a yes, he decides, and starts thinking about the number of restaurants he knows in Pittsburgh: 0.

“Yeah, I’ve been a big fan since I was a kid,” Sid replies, “It was serendipity I guess that Mario managed the Post-Gazette.”

“What do you mean?”

“I, uh,” Sid flounders, and Geno gives him an encouraging grin. “Adopted,” Sid manages. “Mario, uh, me, ah, no, wait, Mario adopted me.”

For a second, Sid looks prouder stumbling his way through a full sentence in English than Geno usually feels.

“No parents?” Geno asks, because he can’t help but wonder, and he hopes he hasn’t stepped on a nerve.

“Ah, no, they died when I was, uh, little, and...” Sid stammers, and Geno realises that yes, that was a nerve.

“So where good place to buy you dinner?” he changes the subject, disliking the way Sid’s breathing, shallowly, and the look in Sid’s downcast eyes.

Sid’s grin returns at the question, though not as brightly as before.

“There’s no need, really,” he tries. Geno raises his eyebrows pointedly, and Sid’s smile widens a little. “Fine, fine. I’ll find us a place.”

\--------

It’s not Geno-and-Sid all the time at the newspaper, and while Geno likes it that way, he finds that the others around make it worth losing alone time with Sid. He soon meets Marc-Andre Fleury, a sports columnist who’s just back from vacation, and immediately understands why it’s a good thing that Sid is senior sports editor. The guy introduces himself as ‘Flower’ and then chats for a few minutes at record speed about something Geno only catches about half of: there was mention of tanning, babes, and Canada--who actually vacations in Canada? Geno wonders--and then Flower darts off, muttering to himself.

Sid is the only one to keep up with the entire thing, oohing and aahing in all the right places and giving Fleury plenty of shit for the shenanigans he apparently pulled. (“Man, I never thought there were that many uses for a coffee maker and a hairbrush!” Fleury grins with a wink, and Sid chides him lightly, “There aren’t--what you did doesn’t count.”)

It’s left up to Sid to explain about Fleury, and he does. “Flower may contribute to the sports writing, but he’s really here for his weekly advice column. I have no idea how, but the guy’s a guru. He gets hundreds of letters a week.” Sid nods over to Fleury’s desk, which is overflowing with envelopes.

Geno wonders how a man with a soul patch is able to give anyone advice.

\--------

Dinner with Sid is nice, if pleasantly awkward. Between the two of them, English grammar takes a hard beating, but Geno manages to understand Sid just fine.

It took him a few weeks, almost a month, in fact, but Sid has found them a nice Italian place, casual rather than fancy, which Geno spends way too much time puzzling over for clues about Sid’s intentions. But it’s fine; it’s actually more than fine.

Sid-on-the-job is a stickler for the rules, gets genuinely annoyed when someone finishes the coffee pot and doesn’t make a fresh batch, and likes to go over copy with a blue pen for notes (he think’s it’s kinder that way, to receive notes in blue, rather than angry red). Sid-on-the-job comes into work at precisely 9am, looking inordinately exhausted and clad in  ugly scarves, but manages to rally impressively for the morning meeting. Sid-on-the-job is a creature of rationality, order, and determination.

Sid-at-dinner is a different person entirely. Geno watches in slight awe as he wolfs down a plate of pasta, a loaf of garlic bread, and a large ceasar salad as soon as they’re placed in front of him. He’s a messy eater, almost snatching at his food like it’ll be taken from him. It’s when Sid almost chokes on their shared appetizer of mozzarella sticks that Geno tries to get some insight into the man he works with.

(He notes, absently, that Sid isn’t wearing a scarf, or a high collar. In fact, this is the first time that he’s ever seen Sid’s neck.)

“Sid say he likes hockey? Did not play professionally?” Geno gestures to Sid’s body, which impressively fills out his humble button-down almost to the point of straining (he likes), and watches as Sid flares red when he continues, “Looks like you keep in shape.”

“Nah...” Sid trails off, thoughtfully probing a bowl of marinara sauce with a breadstick before taking a bite (which Geno watches, in case there’s another choking incident, and not because a hint of marinara sauce remains, clinging to Sid’s lips in a way that’s not gross but makes Geno want to lick it off), “Never got the chance. After my parents died, I stayed in the orphanage for a while. Couldn’t afford decent equipment, but we played when we could in the rec center and went to games whenever a team was feeling charitable. I love the game, loved playing it too. But when Mario and Nathalie took me in, I was too old to get a proper start.”

“Shame.” Geno replies, frowning, and thinks back to Russia, where his hometown league was desperate to take any kid with a whiff of talent. He wonders what Sid could have been like, had he been given a chance to cultivate his skill and show it off.

Sid interprets Geno’s dark look correctly and hastily adds, “It’s not like I never get to play--we do a pick-up game. <e, some guys on the local police force and a couple of the people on the paper. Flower’s a crazy goalie, by the way. That’s how I keep in shape,”

Sid adds, shyly, “You should come.”

Geno would like nothing more than to come.

But before he can reply in the affirmative, Sid jolts, looking down at something in his lap before looking back up at Geno with a strained expression on his face.

“I’m so sorry, I have to go.” Sid gets up quickly, tosses a bill on the table and then stares at Geno, obviously struggling over what to do.

“Something wrong, Sid?” Geno asks in concern, and Sid shakes his head roughly, replying, “No. Yes. God, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t--I mean I can’t--Geno, will you...”

There’s something in Sid’s eyes that reaches Geno and pleads with him, and Geno, confused and a little hurt over the abrupt end to their nice dinner, nods reluctantly.

“Is fine, Sid. Is emergency?”

“I can’t explain. Something needs my attention. It’s...personal.”

Sid-at-dinner is rapidly disappearing, and a new Sid is emerging in his stead, one that Geno can’t yet get a sense of. Suddenly Sid looks tenser, jaw clenching, and he appears bigger, more robust than he did only moments previously. It makes Geno flustered, and something pings in the back of his head, something he can’t yet get the shape of, yet feels familiar.

Geno folds his hands together in his lap and replies, “You need you go, Sid, then go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes. You will.” Sid states with unusual resolution, pausing in his rush to leave to stare into Geno’s eyes, and before Geno can question it, Sid dashes out of the restaurant.

“More wine?” asks the waitress, looking piteously at Geno like he’s just been dumped.

Which he hasn’t. He’s only just met Sid, really. Working together for a month doesn’t mean anything, and he came to Pittsburgh to live, not to pine over his co-worker.

Geno pays the bill and checks his phone as he walks out of the restaurant. The night is young, only 9pm on a Thursday night, and there must be bars open. Bars that cater to his kind of crowd. A quick google search confirms this, and Geno is off into the night.

\--------

The gay scene in Pittsburgh isn’t as glamorous as TV led him to believe, but it’s a hell of a lot better than what they have in Magnitogorsk, so Geno isn’t feeling too put out.

He finds a small bar blasting loud music, painted all black on the inside with a couple of pool tables in the front and a dance floor towards the back.

Geno stands awkwardly, suddenly feeling shy as he watches a throng of sweaty male bodies dance and be free with their bodies, free in a way Geno has never experienced. He quickly heads to the bar, feeling large and lanky and uncoordinated as he takes a seat next to a row of sleek young men.

He’s eyed up, appraised, measured, and then one of them approaches Geno and asks for his name and a dance, with a sly twist of his lips.

Geno, never the most graceful of men, nonetheless obliges, and then obliges some more handsome young men who appear to like his rough accent and large frame.

It’s boring, he realizes, the continuous dancing and playing the part of suave and roguish, which most of these guys seem to like.

But then Geno finds himself dancing with a man more around his own age, with floppy black hair, brown eyes, and and lush red lips. It’s not the real thing, he thinks ruefully, but it’ll do.

The Sid-look-alike is a mixture of coy and aggressive, swaying close to Geno’s body so that he gets a tantalizing brush of groin against groin, but then darting back and throwing shy looks up from underneath dark lashes. Geno imagines that the real Sid, and he thinks about the Sid who had to leave, the more robust and grave Sid, would be clear about his intentions, not afraid of the intimacy of the moment. Oddly, Geno also thinks about the Penguin, who had seemed so earnest and forthright in his dealings, and had, to Geno, the same sort of resolute outlook on justice that Sid has with copyediting and with providing the truest information to their audience. Geno’s not sure if he should feel guilty about thinking about the Penguin, when he knows Sid, but brushes it off.

He’s grown hard, he realizes, and his dance partner must realize it too, because he murmurs softly, “Let’s take this somewhere more private, yeah?”

Geno nods, and lets himself be led off the dancefloor and to the restrooms, which means passing the bar and all its patrons, who must know the real purpose of their journey, guessing from on the whistles they get.

Geno is content to remain the passive partner until they cross the threshold of the men’s room, and then takes control of the situation, slamming the Sid-look-alike against a stall and thrusting into his pelvis with a groan of relief.

The guy moans loudly, but not loud enough for Geno, who imagines that Sid would be loud, would babble and cry out. Someone that restrained, that buttoned-up in their daily lives would surely enjoy the rough touches that Geno meets out, and would gladly express his pleasure as vocally as possible.

Geno tunes out his present partner, and sinks himself into a fantasy where Sid, in a rare adventurous turn, is with him in this restroom, and is leaving himself bare to Geno’s will and his touches, which alternate between hard and soft, and Sid is thankful, so grateful to be here with Geno that his cries reach a crescendo of sound and fury, and it is so good, and Geno wants to remain here with Sid until he reaches completion and then revisit their aborted dinner conversation and learn more about his past, his motivations, his dreams for the future...

Geno has traveled far too deep into fantasy, he realizes, and forces himself to return to the present, with the man he has up against the stall. Upon further review, the guy does not actually resemble Sid. His eyes are too brown, his hair too lanky and his figure bulky in the way of too many gym visits rather than Sid’s natural-looking strength.

Whatever boner Geno was currently on the way to sporting, it is gone now. He removes his lips from the guy’s neck and ceases in his humping. This does not go over well with the Sid-look-alike, who groans in frustration and gives Geno a look.

“What the fuck, man?”

“Sorry,” is all Geno can manage to say, and thanks his less-than-perfect English as he stammers out some more excuses and makes his way out of the bathroom. Instead of passing through the entirety of the bar to get out, Geno spies the side exit and makes hasty retreat.

The exit lets out in an alleyway, and Geno’s about halfway out when he hears the door to the bar slam shut and a voice rings out, “Hey, fuck you, man!”

Geno turns and sees a heavily-built guy, maybe 20-30 pounds bigger and definitely more thick-necked, whose angry, red face pins Geno where he stands.

“Who the fuck do you think you are? Craig is fucking mine, you asshole.”

Geno’s first thought is, ‘who is Craig?’ Then he remembers the Sid-look-alike introducing himself hurriedly, and parading Geno in front of the bar on their way to the bathroom.

Jeez, Geno really didn’t want to have to deal with jealous boyfriends tonight.

“I’m sorry. Didn’t know he was taken. Nothing happened.” He enunciates, trying to communicate how badly he does not want to have to deal with this drama tonight.

“The fuck you didn’t. You fags don’t even care, do you? You just want to get off, you disgusting perverts!”

Okay, so boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend, is a repressed bigot. Geno has seen enough of internalized homophobia in Russia to know when to back off, but clearly Craig digs muscled guys who are ashamed of their desires, ‘cause this guy has clearly channeled his shame into pure rage.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you, you fucking faggot!”

Geno tenses, years of self-preservation informing him that these things tend to get ugly, and indeed they do, as Jealous Asshole Ex-Boyfriend hurls himself at Geno, fists aloft.

Those fists never do make contact with Geno, because, suddenly, a familiar masked figure emerges from--surprise--the shadows to grab the oncoming limb and aim it towards the alley wall.

All in all, it takes the Penguin maybe twenty seconds to dispatch Geno’s attacker, who does get one vicious scratch in, at the Penguin’s neck--Geno’s neck hurts just watching it--before getting his ass kicked soundly. Once the guy is moaning weakly on the ground, Geno finds himself once more the recipient of the vigilante’s attention.

“So,” begins the Penguin, awkwardly, “Come here often?”

Geno wants to laugh, and maybe wants to cry, because this night has been so bizarre, from Sid ditching him at dinner to his unsatisfying encounter with the man in the restroom to his being saved, once again, by a man dressed like a penguin in leather.

“No. First time, actually. Probably last, too.”

“I could hear him yelling a block away. I’m sorry you had to deal with that sort of ugliness, but I’m glad I could neutralize the threat before it escalated further.”

“Save my life again. Must be pretty lucky, yes?” Geno’s blushing a little in the dark at how seriously the Penguin seems to take the threat to him.

“I guess I’ve just been in the right place at the right time,” and as if finally realizing their location, the Penguin shifts and adds, “I know you’re new to the city. This area is, um, typically...I mean, if you didn’t know and just kind of ended up here by accident...” he trails off, and from what Geno can see, has turned bright red underneath his cowl.

“Is gay district, no?” Geno supplies, “I come for that reason.”

“Oh!” There’s a lot more surprise in his tone than Geno was expecting, and it throws him a little. He watches the Penguin open his mouth, and then shut it, and Geno’s gaze is drawn once again to the man’s lips.

The Penguin then asks, seemingly nonchalant, “Have you been here all night, then?”

“No,” Geno thinks of Sid, the way he smiles, a mix of brightness and shyness, as if he’s always surprised to find himself happy. He wonders what that personal problem was that made Sid leave so quickly, and after it had taken so long to get the man out of his workplace shell. He wonders if Sid has someone at home, and the thought makes him feel heavy. He continues, at the Penguin’s prompting look, “Was out with a friend who had to leave suddenly. Felt a little lonely, so I come here. Ended up feeling more alone.”

Geno is normally never so honest with strangers, and his candidness surprises him. What is it about the Penguin that makes him feel so at ease?

“Oh, uh, I’m sorry you feel that way,” the Penguin offers and Geno wants to laugh because it is obviously a struggle for the masked man to deal with Geno’s emotional bullshit, “But I’m sure your friend had a good reason for leaving. I mean, you seem like a good guy; I’m sure he wouldn’t want you to feel lonely.”

“Have been lonely all my life. Now I come here to start over, be different person.” Geno tells him, suddenly wishing his English was better so he could explain what it was like to hide part of himself for so long; to struggle between Evgeni the hockey player, who had money and fame, but no happiness in his heart, and Geno, who yearns for something simple: the warmth of a hand held in his own, the intimate knowledge in a lover’s eyes, a puff of breath against his neck in the mornings as he wakes up.

“I think I understand a little of what that’s like,” the Penguin replies softly, as though he had heard all the things Geno didn’t say. As their gazes hold, Geno thinks that if anyone could comprehend that struggle, it would be the man who wears a mask.

There’s an ache in his chest, a familiar one, and Geno curses himself because of all the people to feel that for, it’s for someone who has a secret identity. Apparently, this is his life.

“Geno, I...” the Penguin trails off again and then, in a familiar maneuver, reaches into his toolbelt and grabs his cell phone, saying, “I have to report this. It could have been a hate crime, and hopefully the police can point him towards someone who can help him out with his anger issues.”

Geno waits patiently as the Penguin dials 911 and explains the situation to Carol. When he’s finished, the man turns back towards Geno and raises his arm, hand outstretched for a moment, before halting the movement and dropping it back to his side. He looks, Geno muses, reluctant to go, saying, “The police should be here shortly to take your statement,” as though it’s a question.

For a semi-hysterical moment, Geno considers asking the Penguin out for coffee but figures he doesn't want to strike out twice in one night

The Penguin takes his leave after about a minute of commenting that he should really get going, you know, citizens to protect and all, and Geno watches bemusedly as the guy ends up scaling the side of the building using some sort of suction-y cup mechanism on this gloves. Geno feels no shame in watching his leather-clad ass as he climbs out of sight.

A couple minutes after that Geno hears sirens and realizes that he has forgotten all about the man lying unconscious on the ground in front of him.

The cop who takes his statement is a genial-looking fellow, who absorbs Geno’s story with a expression of wry fondness and chuckles a little when Geno relays that the Penguin thought a session of anger-management courses would be most beneficial. The other cop, a young woman currently in the process of wrangling Geno’s now-conscious and loudly protesting attacker with frightening strength into the patrol car, snorts and says, “Yeah, this fucker’s gonna need it.”

The male cop, who introduced himself as Kunitz, remarks, “The Penguin’s certainly the politest crime-fighter Pittsburgh has. Vero here should take some lessons from him.”

The woman, Vero, cackles and replies, “Sure, just don’t ask me to put on a leather suit. Besides, he fills it out better than I would anyway.”

When Kunitz learns that Geno works as a sports journalist at the Post-Gazette, he brightens. “Hey, you probably know Sidney Crosby, right?” At Geno’s nod, he continues, “I knew him growing up from playing hockey at the rec center. He’s a good guy, and we play some pick-up games. Sid’s an absolute beast--trains for hours and kicks our asses every time. Ask him about it sometime.”

Geno nods, surprised but pleased by this glimpse into another part of Sid’s life, the childhood in the orphanage that he wishes he knew more about. “Sid mentioned to me,” he adds, then smiles. “Would love to come.”

Kunitz looks pleased. “Awesome, man.”

Vero comes up, then, and pokes Kunitz with a grin, and they say their goodbyes and head off to the station, leaving Geno behind to fend for himself, once more, in the gay district of Pittsburgh.

It’s like he’s been swept through by a tornado, and Geno feels so weary he cabs it back to his apartment.

\-------

Geno limps into the office next morning twenty minutes late, hoping that nobody will notice. This fails instantly when he sees Sid.

Sid, wide-eyed, staring at the strewn papers on his desk, coffee in hand, and Geno would take the chance to appreciate the lovely side-view of Sid’s bubble butt, but for the look of sheer terror on Sid’s face.

“Sid!” Geno calls, once he’s cleared the elevator, and Sid nearly spills the pair of coffees on their desks, which have been pushed together, in his haste to turn towards Geno.

“Careful,” cautions Geno, holding out a hand to take one of the coffees, and Sid, still looking a little lost, doesn’t let go of the cup until Geno’s hand has closed around his. “Sid, you okay?” Geno asks, a little concerned now.

Sid breathes in slowly, leaning a little closer to Geno than he would expect, and smiles upon his exhalation. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he adds, and Geno realises that Sid’s hand is still under his on the coffee cup.

He glances over Sid’s body a little bit more than cursorily, and realizes that Sid’s wearing an unusually unpleasant scarf. It’s lavender and chartreuse paisley, and it clashes so badly with the rest of Sid’s outfit that Geno’s not sure that this is Sid and not an imposter. He figures that the chilly Pittsburgh autumn might be too much for Sid’s delicate skin.

But Geno is suddenly aware of the entire office around them, how he’s staring at Sid, and how the office could be seeing the two of them; then his instincts--learned from years of hiding in Russia--kick in. He tugs the coffee away from Sid, though not without a smile, and sits down at his desk for some good old ignore-your-gay-feelings time.

Geno’s got too much practice at that.

Fortunately, it doesn’t last long, because Sid sits down in his own chair--which is very close to Geno’s, he can smell Sid’s aftershave, mmm--and Sid leans back in his seat in an obvious but fruitless attempt to relax.

“Yes?” Geno prompts, since it’s clear that Sid wants to say something but is preoccupied with--something else? The same thing? Geno doesn’t know, but he’s not happy with Sid this tense.

“Uh, last night,” Sid starts, and Geno’s pretty sure his stomach just hit the basement floor.

“You mentioned that you like hockey.” Sid seems to have calmed down a little by finally getting a full sentence out. Geno nods wordlessly. “There’s a pickup game tonight. Are you free?” and Geno stops for a moment to wonder why Sid would think he wouldn’t be, before grinning at Sid with all of the enthusiasm that hockey deserves.

“Oh yes, Sid. Always free for hockey.”

\-------

Geno’s not really surprised to see Flower and Mario at the rink when Sid drives them over after work—he knows Mario and Sid have always bonded over hockey, and Flower seems to be one of Sid’s closest friends, but seeing Bylsma, Vero, and Kunitz is not really what he had anticipated.

When Sid said that he and a few guys played, he meant it. Sid runs him through the crowd of people present, and Geno manages to get most of their names, realising that he already knows the majority from the aftermath of his run-ins with the Penguin.

“That’s Vero,” Sid adds, and it takes Geno a minute to figure out Vero and Flower are together, which he finds baffling. But he supposes they suit each other well, as Flower cracks an awful joke and Vero nonchalantly pulls a handgun out of her pants leg.

He likes this group already.

“Secret society of hockey,” Geno comments, because here they are: the editor of one of the most influential newspapers in Pittsburgh and the Police Chief, playing hockey together in the most genial of ways.

Sid licks his lips awkwardly, and seems to ponder that before deciding to smile. “I mean, sort of. It’s just a bunch of bros, and Vero, but she counts, I guess, and we just play together, you know? We all love the sport.”

Geno knows that feeling. “Yes, Sid,” he says, trying to show Sid with his expression how much he understands the love of hockey, and Sid stares back into his eyes, lips curling up into a tentative smile.

Flower’s guffaw breaks the moment, though, and it’s back to lacing up skates—Geno’s so excited to do this that his fingers are shaking, he’s missed skating so much—and busily not-being-surprised that Flower’s pulling on goalie’s pads. After all, there’s only so much crazy you can be without being a goalie.

Once you’re a goalie, though, all bets are off.

“Sid,” Geno says, realizing that he needs to get this out of the way. “Sid, I cannot skate so well now.”

Sid’s face falls, and he smiles a little sadly, adding, “I guessed. Knee?”

“Yeah,” Geno sighs. “But do not need knee to make slapshot.”

And he proves himself correct, when his team kicks ass. Sid apparently takes to captaining their side like the Penguin’s ass takes to the leather of his suit.

For a police chief, Bylsma is a hell of a forward, and Geno spares a moment between shifts to admire his gritty style. He seems to have a good rapport with Sidney, and the two of them often converse softly during pauses between rounds. They have a similar disposition, somber and focused off the ice, watchful even, as if identifying every flaw or improvement in their colleagues’ game.

They don’t really keep official score, but Geno can tell that Sid’s keeping track. Judging by Sid’s face when the teams call it a night, they’ve won. Geno is happy to note that his slapshot hasn’t lost its touch, and his knee barely bothered him at all. He knows that moment he tries to really push himself hard, he’ll be ass-down on the ice in pain. But until then, it feels incredible to be back in skates. He’s forgotten how much he misses the elegance of skating, how smoothly he can glide along, and the subtlety that defines small movements.

He does a few laps around the rink, taking it easy, feeling out what his knee can handle after several games, and Sid shoots him a puck from the other end. Soon they’re slamming them across the ice at each other, and Sid’s happy smile is peppered by goofy, honking laughs when Geno spins a little and adds silly but effective flourishes to his shots.

Geno watches Sid skate, one hockey player to another, and he sees the same love he has for the ice in Sid. He feels warmer on the inside, knowing that Sid understands it without Geno having to explain in broken English. He takes the chance to watch Sid’s body stretch with each push off the ice; Sid is a powerful skater, propelled by significant strength. Geno watches a little more, eventually focusing on his favourite part of Sid’s body: Sid’s ass.

It’s round and firm, and Geno gets distracted by how familiar it looks, realising where he recalls it from.

It really looks a lot like the Penguin’s behind, Geno thinks, and takes a moment to contemplate that. He’s so lost in thought, in fact, that when he sends a puck back towards Sid, he skates into a notch in the ice that, while not deep enough to knock him down, does send spasms through his knee.

By the time Geno’s reluctantly off the ice (he doesn’t want to stop, but his knee is really complaining) everyone else is showering, though Fleury’s noticeably missing from the men’s locker room, and they’re chirping each other with an energy that makes Geno feel right at home. He manages to get a few in too, even with his rough English, to the laughter of the guys.

When they’re getting ready to head out, Mario and Bylsma slap him on the back.

“It’s an honor to play with you,” Mario adds sincerely, and Geno flushes a little with pride. “You’re a hell of a hockey player, and it’s a damn shame you’re off the professional ice.”

Geno winces a little internally, then shakes his head. “Yes, but new part of life has begun,” he says, trying to convince both himself and Mario that it’s a good thing.

His eyes land on Sidand, for a moment, Geno feels a little warmer about this new part of his life.

\--------

It turns out that pickup hockey happens every Thursday, and Geno loves it with a passion. Not that that’s a surprise, of course, but his favorite part is skating with Sid. They worked well together on the ice, Geno knows, and he wishes he could have seen Sid play professionally.

Geno doesn’t try the gay scene in Pittsburgh again--after last time’s disaster, it just doesn’t seem worth it. He knows he’d spend the entire time wishing Sid were there, and Geno has no intention of letting him think he’s interested in someone else.

Instead, Geno takes up a few new pastimes.

He starts with inviting Sid over to watch hockey. “Sid, there is hockey documentary. You must see,” he says, putting a little urgency into his voice and hoping Sid will give in without a fight. It took him a month to find somewhere for them to go to dinner, and Geno means not to let a gap like that happen again.

Sid’s eyebrows raise. “What kind?” he asks, and Geno counts this as a victory.

“Is called, uh, twenty-four-seven?” he says, trying to recall exactly what it is. It’s in his queue on Netflix, he knows, and that’s all that is important.

“When do you want to watch it?”

And by victory, Geno means he’s won the Stanley Cup of asking Sid out. “Tonight.”

Sid purses his lips for a moment, focusing on an empty point in space, and Geno stares at him until he glances over and meets Geno’s eyes with a smile. “Alright,” he says, and Geno has to turn back to his computer to hide the magnitude of his grin.

Sid follows him home after work, and Geno flicks on the lights of his apartment, realizing painfully how empty it is. He’d been shopping, once or twice, and has the most comfortable couch and chairs that he can find, but other than that, the apartment’s pretty bare. There’s a table set, and a bed in the other room, and he has all the pots and pans that he needs, but he somehow didn’t think that he’d be inviting Sid over without having him distracted by Geno’s mouth.

“You sit,” he adds, directing Sid to his table. “I cook.”

Sid complies, peeking over the island in the kitchen. “What are you cooking?” he asks, and Geno grins.

“Is surprise.”

And by surprise, Geno means that it’s his favourite twenty-minute dish from Magnitogorsk, and it’s never come out quite so well as it does tonight, if Geno does say so himself.

Sid’s eyes fly open at the first bite. “Oh my god,” he adds, once he’s swallowed. “This is amazing.”

Geno preens.

They end up stretched out on either side of the couch, legs touching a little in the middle—Geno’s resisting the urge to play footsie with Sid, worried that it’ll scare him off, and promising himself that he can next time, because there will be a next time—and watching the Flyers and Rangers prepare for the Winter Classic. “Ugh, the Flyers,” Sid whines at first, but he gets into it when he realises that they can root against the Flyers out loud.

“Yeah!” Sid whoops when the Flyers lose, and Geno laughs, feeling it rumble in the base of his chest. He’s gotten them beers, and Sid’s loose enough that he smiles back, widely, openly, when he catches Geno’s eyes on him.

Then Sid looks at the time and nearly falls off of the couch. “Gotta go,” he adds, abruptly, and Geno’s stomach sinks.

“Again?” he asks, mopily, and Sid bites his lip before nodding.

Geno frowns, then sighs, waving Sid out the door.

\--------

He manages to get Sid over again, and then again, and pretty soon they’re working through not just hockey films but what Sid refers to as Geno’s “weird Russian shows” that Geno likes because, for once, he’s not the one that needs subtitles.

“Seriously,” Sid adds, after they’ve just finished up one that Geno has always had a soft spot for. “What is up with you Russians, anyway?”

Geno frowns, faux-offended. “Russian films best. Sid just need more education.”

Sid takes this as a challenge, adding, “Show me,” and Geno grins. He will.

Every time he and Sid hang out, Geno likes him a little more. He likes it when Sid smiles at the little jokes in their shows; when Sid insists on helping with the food (though Geno won’t let him touch anything but the salads); when Sid frowns over something he’s been mulling on all day. Geno’s favourite is when Sid, usually serious or at least in control, lets himself laugh, honking away across the couch cushions from Geno. Geno can feel the whole couch shake with it, and, well, he can’t help but laugh along.

But Sid always leaves early, and Geno’s gotten used to waving him off, making sly comments about Sid getting his beauty sleep that set Sid blushing.

Once, Geno had inquired about “Sid’s girlfriend,” heart dropping in his chest even as the joke left his mouth. But Sid had nearly fallen over himself to deny anything, and, well, Geno couldn’t help but take him at his word and hope.

\--------

Geno’s third encounter with the Penguin occurs a couple of weeks later, after several more nights on the couch with Sid of watching classic hockey games and working their way through the frozen Russian food that Geno’s mother had sent a while back.

Eventually though, he runs out of Russian food, and Sidney looks so dismayed when he hears there’s no more borscht that Geno resolves to go out as soon as possible to track down ingredients for as much home-made Russian cuisine as Sid can stand.

Pittsburgh has few Russian groceries, and the one Geno needs is in a particularly seedy part of town. Cursing a late deadline and a faulty elevator at work, Geno is forced to leave later than he wanted, and arrives at the Russian grocer just shy of 11pm.

Thankfully, the owner has a soft spot for Geno, and is willing to stay open so that Geno can get all the supplies for a perfect Russian meal for Sid. Geno leaves humming to himself happily with hands full of food when he hears the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking.

Geno takes a moment to wonder how he can possibly attract all the trouble in this city.

He’s so distracted by the gunman who emerges from the shadows ahead of him that he misses the man who comes up behind him and kicks him in the lower back, knocking him over and spilling his food on the ground.

Geno lands hard on his knee, and pain flashes brightly behind his eyes as he clutches at his limb and faces his attackers.

The both have the worn, beaten appearance of desperate men with nothing to lose. They look hungry, and Geno is not sure if it is for food or something darker.

“You’re going to give us your money and your food. If you’re lucky, you will leave here alive,” one of them states casually.

“Maybe we should ensure that he can’t fight back?” the other picks up, and Geno feels the cool metal of the barrel against his shoulder.

Geno shuts his eyes tightly, dreading what’s to come next when he hears a whoosh of sound, like a swift wind, and then a pained masculine grunt.

He peeks one eye open just in time to see a familiar puck-like shape streak into his view and, with powerful velocity, hits the gut of his second attacker, who lands on the ground behind Geno with a grunt.

A dark form swoops in from above Geno, hitting the ground with a solid thunk of his boots and the Penguin slowly rises up from a crouch, awarding Geno a full view of the his rear end.

The Penguin must see the gun now held loosely in the felled man’s hands, because his neck whips around to look at Geno, and he says harshly, “Did they hurt you?”

Geno can only shake his head, but the sight of him lying down in the alley, with the potential violence of the scene glaringly apparent, must affect the Penguin more than Geno expected, because he looks furious.

The Penguin turns back towards the men, just as they begin to get their bearing and try to stand up. The man who had the gun must remember that he has it, because with a growled swear he swings it towards the Penguin--

\--who cleanly turns to his side and swings out a long leg in a perfectly-formed arc, hitting the gun with his foot at the dead center and knocking it out of his hands. The Penguin parlays the momentum of his roundhouse kick into another spin, this time aiming his boot higher so that it cracks against the guy’s forehead.

Without even pausing, the Penguin then reaches out a casual hand to wrap around the throat of the second man who had hurled himself forward. The Penguin, easily 5 inches taller and 50 pounds heavier than his assailant, tightens his grip and lifts the man.

Geno notes with worry that the Penguin’s normally inscrutable face looks angry, taut with emotion, and even though this is his third time encountering the guy, he gets the feeling this isn’t normal Penguin behavior.

But then the flash of silver distracts him, and Geno is too slow to react and warn the Penguin as a small knife drops from the man’s sleeve and embeds itself in the Penguin’s left thigh.

Geno yells and the Penguin flinches, but beyond that doesn’t budge, continuing to squeeze the breath out of the man as blood begins to seep from his wound, staining the leather of his suit.

“You scum,” is all the Penguin says, and then drops the man, who feebly gasps for breath and clutches his throat. Before he can gain his bearings again, side delivers a vicious kick to his solar plexus and the man wheezes in agony.

Geno, stunned, watches as the Penguin stops moving, a pensive statue amongst the chaos he has just inflicted. He seems to be barely breathing himself, before reaching down slowly to pick up the kicked away gun in his gloved hands and examining it.

He turns, and Geno can see the moment that it sets in, the violence he has just exhibited, that, to Geno’s practiced eye, is out of character for the vigilante.

The Penguin lets out a huff of breath, and gets to work, tying up the two men and making the routine call to the police. Geno knows it’ll take a while for them to get here, it being a Friday night and out of the way. So for now, he lets himself be patient, waiting for the Penguin to make his move.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” The man finally says, avoiding Geno’s eyes, “I saw the gun, and it...scared me.”

“Penguin scared of something? Sounds crazy, yes?”

The Penguin lets out an odd, strangely familiar chuckle and looks at his worn leather boots. Geno spares a moment to wonder how the man keeps his pristine white uniform so clean. The blood from the wound has stained the fabric, and the Penguin pulls the knife from flesh with quick, brutal efficiency, reaching into his ever-present toolbelt to pull out a bandage wrap which he applies.

“It doesn’t matter if I’m scared. The city needs a protector, and no one else can do it.” He sounds so sure of himself, and Geno wants to break the strange spell over this conversation. Wants to break through the walls of professionalism that the Penguin has placed between them, when it had been so special before.

“So Penguin is following me now?” Geno asks wryly, and he can’t miss the Penguin’s amusement.

“I follow crime, not just you. The real question is, why does crime follow you?”

Geno can’t help but smile. “Maybe they like my accent?”

The Penguin returns the smile, softly, and then reaches down to start gathering Geno’s spilled food into his dropped bag. Geno gapes at the scene, and then nods gratefully as his slightly-damaged wares are handed back to him.

“Do you always do your grocery shopping so late?” The Penguin inquires.

Geno smiles ruefully, “I like someone who likes Russian food. I try to court him with mother’s recipes, hopefully, what’s that saying, find way to his heart through stomach.”

The Penguin doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stands with a peculiar look on his face. If Geno didn’t know any better, he’d think it was a mix of surprise and fondness.

“I’m sure if he likes you, it’s for more than your food.” He finally replies, quietly.

Geno senses that he may have missed something, or that it got lost in translation. Something that could explain why the air between them suddenly feels so heavy.

He says lightly, “Ah, I know, of course that he wants me for my body,” trying to tease out a smile.

Penguin--well, Geno can’t quite tell, but he might be blushing. After a moment, though, whose silence has Geno remembers his throbbing knee and shifting slightly, Penguin asks, “How’s your knee doing?”

The Penguin must have caught Geno’s stilted wince. But Geno hadn’t outwardly shown that much pain, and he wonders how Penguin knew it was his knee that hurt.

“Your knee, is it still bothering you?” Penguin repeats, sounding concerned, and it’s the ‘still’ that catches Geno’s attention.

“Yes, landed on it.” Geno says, watching Penguin carefully.

But Penguin seems back to normal, eyeing the violent scene scattered around them, and Geno’s inquisitive stares go unnoticed. They say their goodbyes in the normal fashion: precise, but drawn out, as though neither party really wants to go their separate ways.

As Penguin walks away Geno notices that he’s favoring his left side, and hopes with all his heart that the Penguin will seek proper medical attention.

\---------

Sid’s a little late with their coffees the next morning--just a minute or two outside of his usual range, but enough to make Geno a little uncomfortable. He grins as Sid walks in, today in an electric orange and teal plaid scarf, and Sid seems fine.

Except.

He’s treading carefully on his left, as though he’s worried that it’ll hurt if he puts too much weight on it. Someone who didn’t know bodies, didn’t know Sid’s body, wouldn’t have seen it, but Geno’s invested a significant amount of time over the last few months in learning Sid and how he moves, and something is off.

Geno starts thinking.

Scarves. Leg. Routine. Leaving early. Hockey pucks. How Sid disappears. How Penguin asked about his knee.

And then Geno thinks of Sid’s ass, thinks of Penguin’s ass, thinks of Sid’s ass again.

Oh.

Could it be? The hockey pucks the Penguin throws, the way Sid took off early from dinner and later found him, the perfect fucking behind that no-one else could replicate if they tried.

Well, if that’s the case, Geno feels a lot less guilty about admiring the Penguin’s ass in its leather suit.

There’s really only one way to test a theory, and that’s through observation and continued research. Luckily, Geno is both patient and diligent, and as he glances once more at Sidney’s form across their desks, he begins to formulate a plan.

\-------

Fact: Geno is former hockey player.

Fact: Geno is Russian.

Fact: both of these things mean that Geno sometimes does crazy things that most people would shy away from. Such as going out into the seediest sections of Pittsburgh at night, hoping to be mugged, and then rescued by a handsome hero dressed as a penguin.

He puts on his loudest clothing: leather jacket, tight and expensive jeans, flashy belt. Geno’s from Russia, and he’s got the bling to prove it. He pulls on everything that he needs to look as douchey--and by douchey he means rich--as he possibly can.

As an afterthought, he decides to leave his wallet at home. Better that nothing really important go out with him. No, the bling from Gonch doesn’t count.

As he struts out into the street, whistling under his breath, his heart thrums with anticipation. Soon, he’ll see Sid. Maybe he can pretend to fall over and Sid can carry him to the hospital.

It doesn’t take him long to get to an area that he can tell is sketchy--he did a little searching on the internet for “least desirable area to live” while still in what he thinks might be the Penguin’s range.

Geno grins to himself. This is going to work.

He pulls out a bottle, wrapped in a brown paper bag, and slumps against the wall. Geno’s tried to drink his gay away enough times early on to know how to play properly boozed up, and he starts singing in slurred Russian.

“Пока... но все равно хочу сказать: Что все по-честному-было,

Что люблю, не забыла...Что давно, uh, давно, все простила”

It’s not long before a burly hooligan shows up, and Geno’s now not quite sure what to do. Should he fight back? Should he stumble a little? How about getting loud? Yes, that should work. Loud as possible, he decides, wanting Sid to hear him and hoping that the Penguin’s not occupied elsewhere.

Fortunately, he isn’t. Geno sways a little yelling at the thug, in more slurred Russian (как, черт возьми, вы знаете мою мать, маленькая сука) which means, to Geno, roughly “how the fuck do you know my mother, you little bitch,” and a bit of “Уверен, вы даже не член вы чертовски киску и мать твою, ничего себе, какая пизда” that means things that Geno doesn’t like to even think in public, but hey, it feels good to swear once in a while.

And when Penguin shows up, jumping down from the roof, wings flapping and leather tight against his muscles, Geno shuts up and stops swearing. “Penguin!” he calls, enthusiastically. “This gentleman is giving me a nice welcome to Pittsburgh,” he adds, and, well, he can nearly hear Penguin rolling his eyes.

The Penguin kicks the thug’s ass relatively quickly, and Geno has the chance to admire the whole thing from his comfy lean on the alley’s resident dumpster.

“Thank you, thank you,” Geno says enthusiastically, forgetting to slur.

Penguin’s breathing hard, though, for how easy it was for him to take out the last thug, and Geno wonders what’s going on. “Penguin, you such good fighter,” he adds, and Penguin flicks his eyes up to Geno’s, glaring furiously.

“Are you okay?” he nearly snarls, and Geno’s shaken out of his joy at seeing Sid by how seriously Penguin seems to be taking this.

“Ah, uh, yes. Yes, yes, I fine. He bad fighter,” Geno gets the words out there as quickly as he can. “No worry, Penguin.”

Penguin exhales slowly. “Okay. So, uh, some professional advice?”

Geno leans forward to listen, and Penguin’s eyes lock onto his.

“Maybe you should consider staying home a bit more, you know.”

Geno decides to take this suggestion seriously, and, the next day, invites Sid over for another movie and beer. Sid leaves early, of course, but Geno has gotten to see Sid every single night for the last four nights. He’s flying pretty high.

Next time Geno goes out to find Penguin, he’s sort-of picking a fight with a large drunk man outside a bar. “Penguiiiiin!” he shouts when Sid arrives. “So glad you make it!”

Penguin flashes him a little smile before punching the thug in the jaw. Once he’s been dispatched, Geno faux-drunkenly flops an arm around Penguin’s leathered shoulder. “Hey,” he adds, and when Penguin doesn’t shrug him off, Geno counts this as his biggest victory yet.

“Hello,” Penguin says, smiling.

\--------

Of course, all of this seeing Sid that Geno’s been doing has been gotten him confident.

Perhaps too confident, he wonders. But, you know, how else is he supposed to get into Sid’s heart (and his pants)?

And he’s distracted by the scarf, one night, when Sid arrives bearing a six-pack of Blue Moon (with Agave--it’s Sid’s favourite) and his scarf is the exact same colour as the box. It’s lime green and two shades of blue and in a tree-lake-floral pattern and, well, it’s the first scarf Sid’s ever worn that hasn’t been utterly hideous. It matches the box, Geno wonders, staring at it, and he doesn’t realise until Sid’s staring back at him, and then Geno gets lost in Sid’s stare. Then Sid puts the beer down next to him and licks his lips (ugh, those lips), and then Sid says his name and, well, it goes straight to Geno’s dick, giving him a slight heart attack on the way.

He puts a hand on Sid’s ridiculous scarf, wraps his fingers around it, and pulls Sid into a kiss, cutting off another exclamation of his name.

Sid’s warm and pliant and his mouth is wet under Geno’s, and Geno slowly unwraps the scarf from Sid’s neck. He’s never touched Sid’s neck, only seen it a few times, and Sid’s so distracted by Geno’s sweet kisses that he doesn’t notice Geno rubbing his thumb along a bruise that runs along the same part of his neck as the bottom of the Penguin mask.

Sid doesn’t stop him when Geno moves his mouth down from Sid’s and traces a finger-drawn line across Sid’s jaw, down onto his neck, and he murmurs his approval when Geno sucks a mark into Sid’s neck to match the one from the mask. Geno’s hands are caressing more of Sid than just his neck, now, tracing the muscles in his back and along his hip bones.

They end up sitting on the couch, Sid straddling Geno’s legs, making little bruises of his own into Geno’s skin. They’re both hard, almost achingly so, but it’s mellow, and slow, and it doesn’t have to go anywhere further than this. Geno’s heart feels bigger than his dick right now, and he’s content to have Sid sitting here, all his, occasionally telling him, around his own lips and tongue that are so intertwined with Sid’s that neither can tell whose is whose, how wonderful he is.

Sid curls into Geno’s shoulder, breathing into Geno’s ear as Geno licks away at Sid’s neck, Geno takes a mental snap-shot of the moment, just sitting here, with Sid.

They stay there together, Geno’s not sure how long, and then Sid decides to check his watch.

“Geno, I...” Sid starts, glancing into Geno’s eyes with a nervous lick of his lips. “I have to, to...”

Geno knows where this is going, but he misses Sid. It hurts to lose him so often, to see him disappear, get up from Geno’s arms with a sad smile that apologises for things that Geno knows Sid wants to tell him, and Geno can’t do anything but try to smile back, then slump into his couch alone.

Geno knows that this moment has been coming for a while, but he hadn’t realised that this would be the time, after their first kiss. But he understands that it would be cruel to continue this farce, pretending he doesn’t know the truth because it’s hurting Sidney to be secretive, to keep part of himself from Geno. Geno has enough experience with that kind of hurt to never want to inflict it on someone he cares about. Loves.

“Sid,” he begins, but then pauses. How does one let their boyfriend know that they know that they moonlight as a vigilante hero?

But Sid makes an inquisitive face, and it’s so open, soft and vulnerable, that Geno knows he can’t delay. If they want to be together, they need to share in each other’s strength.

“Sid, I know you are Penguin.”

And then it’s out there.

Sid’s face undergoes a series of changes rapidly: shock, dismay, fear and then resignation. Sorrow.

He doesn’t even try to lie. Just sags, looking at that moment incredibly small and fragile, despite his frame.

“How did you find out?” He whispers.  

Geno considers a number of approaches, such as listing the myriad of logistical clues and coincidences that have brought him to this moment.  But Geno has always preferred the  blunt, honest truth.

“Your ass give it all away.”

Sid looks horrified, “What?”

“Your suit very tight, Sid. Give me first idea, very distinct ass.  Not so good at keeping secret, after that.”

Sid blanches, as if wondering just how many people must stare at his rear end for it to undo him like this.

“Jesus, Geno, do you think everyone knows?”

“Probably not. All know you have big bubble butt, but no one stare at your ass like I do. At least hope not,” Geno replies, voice going dark at the end.

“But, but...” Sid sounds semi-hysterical, “What about Bylsma? He’s the fucking Chief of Police!”

“Bylsma might be too straight for your ass, Sid. I’m sure it just be me,” Geno placates him.

Sid looks relieved, and then incredulous. He then starts shaking, and Geno leans forward in concern, thinking Sid might be having a seizure. But it’s laughter. Sid is convulsing in honking giggles, the likes of which Geno has never heard emerge from his mouth. He goes on like that for ten minutes, not speaking, just clutching at his sides and laughing until he is crying.

Geno wonders if that’s the only way Sid allows himself to cry, and waits patiently.

When Sid is finally finished, he looks up at Geno, glassy-eyed and red cheeked. He looks years younger, and lighter.

“Holy fuck, Geno,” he swears, stuttering it out through some late chuckles, and Geno smiles, saying, “Feel pretty special, having caped crusader as boyfriend.”

Much later, as they lie in bed, fully clothed, Sidney agreeing to take the night off, he starts talking.

“You know I grew up in the orphanage, right?” At Geno’s nod he continues, “I don’t remember too much about my parents. They were Canadian, I believe, but I was born in Pittsburgh and I guess they felt comfortable in this city, so they stayed. We weren’t rich, but we weren’t poor. I remember having everything I wanted, yet it’s hard sometimes to remember them, what they looked like or how they acted. They always used to take me to this park in the winters, and they taught me to ice-skate, and gave me my first hockey stick,” Sid laughs slightly at the memory, “I guess they wanted me to remember my Canadian heritage.”

Then his tone changes, becomes more somber.

“I was seven years old when they died. It was a routine mugging on our way back from the park, except the guy got spooked by something, or was on something. I don’t know. I don’t even think he knew what had happened, when he pulled the trigger that first time. He shot my mom in the heart. And then he killed my dad when he tried to go for him.

“I’ll never know why he left me behind. Maybe there was a spark of humanity in him, but he ran away. It was ten minutes before someone noticed. The cops were called, and the guy was eventually caught and put away for what he had done, but I wasn’t aware of anything. I don’t think I spoke a word for the next year.”

Geno wordlessly draws Sid closer, wraps his arms around him as Sid, as though compelled by some greater force, keeps speaking.

“I lived at the orphanage for the rest of my childhood. It wasn’t bad--not like what you see in movies, where all the children were miserable. It was fine, but lonely. I could keep playing hockey there, which was great, but there’s no way I could’ve gotten trained well enough to make it pro. I gave up on that dream a while ago.

“The saving grace, for me, was the monthly trip to the Zoo and Aquarium.” Sid casts a shyly embarrassed look towards Geno, but Geno merely kisses his forehead in a silent gesture to continue.

Smiling, with a nostalgic look in his eye, Sid remarks, “You can imagine that I was a pretty weird kid. Too serious, too sensitive, I got oddly fixated on the strangest things, and I would become obsessive about them, wanting to master it. It was like that with hockey, but when we went to the zoo I ended up falling in love with the penguins.

“It was my favorite part, seeing them that one time a month, and I would spend most of my time just looking at them interacting. I learned a lot of stuff about them too, going to the library and researching. I actually considered becoming a zoologist, just so I could spend more time with them.”

Geno chuckles, imaging Sid interacting with all the animals in the same attentive, earnest fashion he approaches his job as a journalist. “Why favorite animal, Sid?” He asks.

Sidney appears to ponder this for a moment, before replying, “Well, this may sound kind of odd, but I was envious of them. Penguins are all about family units. They travel in these large colonies and they are always looking out for each other, in case of danger. They develop these strong bonds, and they, well,” Sid breaks off and blushes, avoiding Geno’s eyes as he finishes, “They mate for life, too.”

“The things they valued, were things that I valued. And I felt a kinship with them, maybe because all I’ve wanted was to belong to something. To be apart of something bigger, more meaningful.” Sid turns to face Geno, expression closing into something pained, as though trapped in his memory. “I had been so lonely for so long, seeing them every month was like a mantra, a promise to myself that I would one day have that again.

“I didn’t become the Penguin until my early twenties. After Mario and Nathalie adopted me, I kept working out and training as if I would go pro. It was too late for me, of course, but it gave me something to focus on. And it came in handy, when I saved the life of a woman who was being robbed. My size, my strength, it was useful for something. So I started thinking, I had all this skill, and around that time we started hearing reports of these masked vigilantes making names for themselves in other cities, doing all this good. It felt like destiny,” Sid admits to Geno, who is rapt with attention, “and everything fell into place after that.”

“I continued to train, claiming it was for our weekly pick-up games; I stole a police monitor from Kunitz, and I do nightly patrols of the sections of Pittsburgh where I know there will be trouble, or that the police can’t or won’t always get to on time. Of course, I try to be respectful, since I know they’re just doing their jobs, but I found that the added menace of having someone like myself around deters villains from harming innocent people.”

“And so the hero is born?” Geno asks.

“Yep.” Sid grins proudly, “I’ll admit it was awkward at first, having to introduce myself all the time so word would get around, but it’s been about five years now, and the city is safer.”

“But the name Penguin, seems not so...” Geno searches for the right word tactfully, ”Fearsome?”

Sidney rolls his eyes, “I know it’s not the awesome title, and that I share it with a fictional villain, but it was a gut thing for me! I’m very superstitious, and penguins had helped shaped my identity, my goals and dreams. I didn’t want to leave it behind. Plus,” he adds with a gleam in his eyes, “if anyone makes fun of me about it, I just kick their asses.”

Geno agrees that this is best solution and they get up from the bed, performing their ablutions with a new sense of ease. Geno can’t stop looking at Sid, going over what he'd just learned, all the new facets of this man that have been revealed. To be privileged with such information, such honesty, floors him. It makes him want to be worthy of Sid, worthy of his trust.

They don’t have sex tonight, but this new closeness between them feels more intimate than anything Geno’s ever done.  

As he’s about to fall asleep, Sidney whispers in his ear, “I think I want to save people, the way I couldn’t save my parents. I want to be a part of something good.”

“You are good, Sidney. You are best.” Geno reassures him, and tries to kiss away any remaining doubt.

\--------

A week later, Geno starts going on patrols with Sid as Penguin. At first, Sid is vehemently against it, citing his inability to be in two places at once if Geno is caught in the crossfire, but Geno appeals to his vanity, replying that he likes watching Sid be big, brave hero.

For that he gets fetchingly red cheeks and a long, wet kiss.

Geno underestimated Sid’s ability to be on-task when on the job. No sooner is he dressed in his leather outfit, accessories assembled, than his tone and demeanor change. He is no longer the bashful Sid of dinners and kisses, so excited to share this part of his life with Geno; instead, he is the Penguin, cool and methodical in his preparations.

“I handle patrols in a spiral pattern, targeting the dangerous areas with more frequency and circling back to make sure no one is waiting until I’m out of the scene to cause trouble. Then I widen my perimeter and do more aeriel spot-checks using the rooftops,” The Penguin gestures to the flaps under his arms, which lengthen at Sid’s manipulation into faux-wings that can catch the wind and help the Penguin glide through the air with ease.

“I thought Penguins don’t fly, Sid.” Geno can’t help but tease.

He expects Sid’s red, blushing face, but gets only a confident smirk (he’s not sure which one he likes better) and a reply, “Penguins are adaptable creatures, Geno. I do what I can.”

The Penguin knows which spots are more hazardous: neighborhoods with mob ties, spots with tension between immigrant communities, areas frequented by gay people, the streets where college kids go to drink...and it’s like he has a sixth sense for where the night’s trouble will be. He’s fastidious about fighting crime.

Geno follows along, huffing and puffing, marveling at the conditioning Sid must put through his body in order to accommodate the strain of this, night after night. His stamina, he thinks with a wry grin, is truly impressive. When there’s a confrontation, the Penguin warned Geno with a quiet seriousness, he is to not interfere. Geno is sent as far back as possible, sometimes looking down from the roof as Sid stalks his victims with a casual competence that is amazing to see.

What’s also amazing to see is the reaction of the muggers, rapists, and all-around scum when they see the Penguin: genuine fear. It’s hard to reconcile that with the Sid Geno knows, who can barely contain the exuberance of his staff during morning meetings after coffee has been had.

But people genuinely don’t want to mess with the Penguin. And it both complicates and makes it easier to understand Sid, the many new and different facets of character.

In his more pensive moments, Geno can admit he doesn’t know if he has the capacity to piece together all of these parts into the whole of the man he has grown to love.

Yet things are easy now, or at least easier than when there was all the secrecy and avoidance. And at least Geno can be pleased about that.

Then one night, Sid hears through the grapevine about some recent trouble by some  abandoned factories on the outskirts of the city. Most of the cops are pretty far away, so Sid and Geno go to investigate it, the Penguin looking hilariously incongruous within Geno’s sedan, which he insisted on bringing tonight, as “Pittsburgh winters not as cold as Russian winters, but still not want to freeze nuts off tonight.”

When they arrive, Geno thinks at first it was a false alarm. The factories do seem, indeed, to be abandoned.  

Sid spots the thugs pretty quickly, though. Well, the thugs actually spot them first, and they make the mistake of trying to sneak up on Sid. This doesn’t end well for the thugs---soon on their stomachs, the iron pipes they carry end up pressed to their necks, and when they start cursing out Sid, Geno, and both of their mothers, Sid gets angry. People rarely comment on his mother--most of the criminals in Pittsburgh know not to talk back to the Penguin.

“Who the fuck are you?” snarls Sid, swearing for the second time in Geno’s memory, and for once he’s too startled to be turned on.

“Doesn’t matter who we are. You’re gonna regret interfering in Orca’s business.” spits the thug.

“Orca?” Sid questions, reaching with one hand for the ropey wire Geno’s grabbed so he can secure their wrists.

“Yeah,” follows up the second thug, “Our boss. This city belongs to him now.”

Geno frowns. “Orca seem odd name for boss. Would killer whale not be better? Seems more scary.”

Thug #1 laughs. “This coming from the pansy that works with ‘The Penguin?’ Oooh, scary scary.”

Geno doesn’t get to question the men after that, since Sid delivers two precise hits to the back of their heads, rendering them unconscious.

It’s not the last they hear of Orca, unfortunately. It’s just be beginning. He makes himself known with an alarming rapidness: graffiti tags of his name in prominent locations, oaths of loyalty to him that Sid bullies out of new thugs, drug deals skyrocketing and firearms suddenly abundant on the street.

It’s only a matter of time before Geno and Sid overhear his name in the newsroom. The Orca’s presence has gang violence escalating, and local mob-run businesses vandalized until they succumb and are assimilated into what seems to be Orca’s empire.

According to Sid, guys have tried to appoint themselves head honcho before; usually it happens every couple of years or so, but it’s generally taken care of quickly by the police or FBI. This is the first time, however, that he’s seen anyone take things over with the ease and swiftness that this man has. And yet, for all his diligent searching, Sid hasn’t seen him once.

It’s taking its toll, Geno can see. Sid begins venting his frustration on every thug they meet, working fiercely to try and thwart Orca’s projects before they do serious harm. His henchmen seem to multiply, and it becomes harder and harder for the Penguin to be everywhere he needs to be.

When being on the ground doesn’t seem to do anything, Sid starts researching, calling up as many old contacts as possible to learn what he can about the Orca’s motivations. Apparently he’s not the only masked vigilante out there.

“I know a guy in Boston.” Sid informs Geno as he slips into bed early one morning, frustration and exhaustion written into every line of his body.“A bunch of us of formed a network, you know? We help each other out.”

Geno shifts sleepily, wrapping his arms around Sid’s wind-chilled frame and inquires, “Who is guy?”

“He’s called the Bear and he found out some info from his sidekick, French Canada.”

“French Canada? Is weird name for hero.” Geno snorts.

Sid cracks a grin, “I think Zdeno--I mean, the Bear--had a hard time pronouncing the guy’s hometown, and from what I heard, just started calling him that.”

“You mean, not his name?”

“I think it’s actually Patrice, or something. But I guess French Canada just stuck after a while. Apparently no one asked Patrice.”

Geno wonders how this is his life. Not for the first time.

“So what he say?”

“Well, no one really knows Orca’s whole story, but apparently he’s new to America. They say he’s Russian, and had some serious mafia ties over there which he used to break into the international scene. Deals in drugs, firearms, you name it.” Sid’s face looks oddly illuminated in the pale light of dawn, like marble, cold and distant. Geno’s afraid to touch him, suddenly.

“He rules with fear.” Sid announces grimly, “You’ve seen how quickly he’s moved. He’s got the whole city in an uproar.”

“Sid will stop him.” Geno states confidently.

Sid’s lips flatten into a pale pink line. “The Penguin will stop him. It’s only a matter of time.”

\--------

After that, it takes only one night for things to come crashing down.

Geno convinces Sid to take off a special night. It’s Sid’s birthday, and, well, Sid’s been getting more and more involved in this Orca business, so Geno thinks that they should have a night together. Just being Geno and Sid, no Penguin, no Penguin’s-shadow. They make screwdrivers, because Geno thinks that Sid will enjoy them, though then just end up drinking straight from the expensive bottle of Stoli Elit that Geno ordered specially from Russia.

“Stoli-ch-sta-ch-yaya,” Sid giggles, head in Geno’s lap, and Geno pours a little more into Sid’s mouth.

“No, no, lubimaya maya,” Geno smiles. “Sto-li-ch-naya.”

They’ve long ignored the movie playing in the background and Geno’s filled with warmth from Sid. “Sloppy, drunk Sid is hot Sid,” Geno proclaims, nuzzling his nose into Sid’s.

Sid giggles, and Geno thinks it’s so cute that he just has to, absolutely, has to kiss him. It would be a crime against humanity, he decides, not to show Sid exactly how perfect he is.

Geno starts by licking every part of Sid’s body that he can reach, and then every bit that’s exposed. Lips, eyelids--Sid giggles a lot at this one--ears, neck, where he sucks in a few particularly special bruises, collarbone.

Geno slips off Sid’s shirt, and Sid’s laugher peeters off into heavy breathing punctuated with moans. Geno’s moving downwards, now, straddling Sid, hands gripping Sid’s hips, fingers rubbing circles into Sid’s sides.

Moaning, Sid writhes into Geno’s touch, and Geno’s relieved to see that Sid’s not quite so drunk that he can’t get hard. Geno murmurs a little more into Sid’s hips, hands sliding around to grasp Sid’s perfect ass.

Geno still can’t believe that he gets to touch this ass on a regular basis.

But there’s no time to dawdle. Geno wants to make this perfect for him. Geno grabs the lube stashed under the couch, and, keeping one hand running circles along the joint of Sidney’s hip and thigh, looks up at Sid from under his eyes and just watches Sid, squirming in anticipation.

It’s all Geno can do to go slowly, to open Sid up with one lubed finger and close his mouth around the head of Sid’s cock. Sid hums under the touch, almost a moan, but it’s Sid, and it’s a hum instead, musical and lyrical, a soundtrack that matches the rhythm that Geno’s now sliding his mouth up and down to, his finger in and out of Sid with.

“Another,” Sid pants, and it’s Sid’s birthday, so he should get what he wants, and Geno slides a second finger into Sidney. He takes his mouth off of Sid’s cock just in time for Sid’s whimper to turn into a moan and his hips to jolt, as Geno crooks his fingers, and Sid’s really squirming now.

Geno keeps his fingers where they are and replaces his mouth on Sid, other hand still running circles into the top of Sid’s thigh, and Sid fucks himself onto Geno’s fingers and in and out of his mouth, Geno humming in response to Sid’s nearly frantic motions.

Geno looks up at Sid and smiles, eyes full and dark, he knows, and when Sid’s gaze meet his, Sid whispers, “Geno,” and comes.

They snuggle, then, because Sid’s adorable and Geno doesn’t want to let him go. Sid offers to reciprocate, but, for now, Geno’s happy to just lie here with Sid in his arms, and eventually, they doze off.

Then they hear sirens, in the distance at first, but the wails become louder and piercing. And they don’t stop. There have to be at least four or five of them passing right underneath their window.

The pair is broken out of their sleep by the noise and Sid snaps into action, wordlessly throwing on his uniform and grabbing his gear. Geno follows behind him, and they head off into the night, following the flashing lights of the trucks in Geno’s car.

They follow for a while, Sid’s frame thrumming with impatience next to Geno’s. They head further into the poorer area of town, and Sid suddenly sucks in a harsh breath as the subject of their pursuit comes into view.

An old, brick building, engulfed in flames. Near the front lawn, Geno can read a sign that says Pittsburgh City Orphanage.

“Sid,” He begins, but the Penguin is out of the car, dashing towards the flames just as the firemen assemble their gear and start hosing.

The building won’t survive this, Geno knows. He’s seen this type of work before, in Russia, to places set aflame as a warning. They didn’t stand a chance against such an aggressive onslaught, and neither does this.

Geno runs, as fast as he can, after Sid, but is abruptly restrained by a police officer, who screams, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Geno wants to scream back, what about Sid? But Sid is Penguin now, and Geno can only watch as the Penguin hurls himself against the side door, before tossing one of his explosive pucks at the target and creating a large hole for him to enter through.

And then Geno has to wait. It’s an unbearable amount of time, but thankfully a number of firefighters follow Sid’s lead and join him inside the building while the water does its work.

Geno doesn’t remember falling to his knees, the cop’s arms gone, but he still feels immobile, frozen with fear.

Then he sees it. The Penguin emerges from the hole in the door, carrying in his arms a small child, with a slightly larger boy clinging to his back. Following the Penguin is a line of other children, ushered by coughing and wheezing adults and competent people in uniforms.

A small crowd must have gathered by Geno, because they break into applause. Geno can barely hear it, all his senses trained on Sid, who doesn’t stop rushing in and out to grab kids. His leather suit becomes covered in soot and he must be having a hard time breathing too, because he’s soon stopped by a wary EMT who forces an oxygen mask over his face and waves her hand, as if to say, you’ve done enough.

Geno waits as Penguin shakes off the woman’s hand, and tears the mask off his face. Penguin looks around frantically, before realizing that Geno is there, and he takes a half-step towards him, before stopping and turning to look at the still-rising flames.

Geno watches Sid as he watches his childhood home burn to the ground. Neither of them makes a noise and the dark silhouette of Sid, as the Penguin, against the bright red of the flame in the distance is suddenly the saddest thing Geno has ever seen.

“He took this.” He hears Sidney murmur faintly, as if not even aware he’s saying the words. “He took this from me. From everyone who ever lived here.” He looks confused, lost as he surveys the wreckage and then whispers, so quiet only Geno can hear, “I learned how to play hockey here.”

They are no longer needed. An entire fleet of firefighters has shown up, and all the kids have been evacuated, thanks to the Penguin and the good men and women of the Pittsburgh PD and FD. If anything good has come from this night, it’s that people have seen their masked vigilante working together with the forces of good, and witnesses of his bravery will spread the word.

But the cost of it sits heavy and bitter in Geno’s mouth, and he can barely move towards Sidney, whose bearing is writ with devastation and sorrow.

Later that night, they get into bed silently and Geno doesn’t know what to do, how to comfort Sid after this night. Sid takes care of his anxiety, like he takes care of everything, by wrapping his arms around Geno and pressing himself as close as he can get, even slowing his breathing so it’s like they’re one person, one living being.

“We can’t let him get away with this.” Sidney states softly, and Geno’s not sure if he’s talking to himself or not. “ He’ll only hurt more people. We need to take him down.”

Those words echo in Geno’s head as he falls into an uneasy sleep.

\---------

A few nights later, Sidney asks Geno out to meet him in an abandoned factory on the river.

Geno goes, of course, ‘cause he’ll always want to see Sid, although he thinks this is an odd choice for a date.

It’s the Penguin he meets, though, looking out of place in the light of the setting sun, perched on top of a shipping crate and staring into space. When he spots Geno, he brightens and nearly falls off his ledge in his haste to get up.

Then a voice asks, “Need a hand?”

Geno and Sid look up, and then up some more, and at the top of a pile of shipping crates in the far corner of the warehouse is another masked figure and Geno groans because, really? This is just getting ridiculous.

“Black Hawk.” Sid states, sounding politely annoyed.

“Penguin,” comes the monotone reply and the figure leaps, literally leaps, off the crates, which has about a 70 foot drop. Fortunately, Black Hawk has wings like Sid does, large, though his are designed to look like actual feathers, which he uses against the wind to slow his descent into a graceful glide.

When he touches the ground, Geno is able to get a better look. Young, probably around Sid’s age, and similarly bedecked in leather, although in varying shades of black and brown. The woven material of his ‘wings’ are intricately designed, looking both bird-like and tribal.

Black Hawk wears a mask as well, which fails to hide a somewhat constipated-looking expression, judging by the clench of his jaw and purse of his mouth. Geno notes with satisfaction that Sid pulls off his cowl way better, and looks to his friend for an introduction.

“Geno,” Sid nods towards the other masked man, “Black Hawk here usually works in Chicago, and I called him in to help with the Orca. He’s had similar trouble in the past with these sorts of megalomaniacs.”

Black Hawk nods somberly, adding, “We had a major crime syndicate a couple years back headed by a guy they called the Coyote, who came up from Phoenix and had a habit of decapitating his competition. Guys like that want power, and they want it through fear.”

“Yeah, and chopping off all those heads was seriously fucked up,” speaks another voice from the shadows.

Seriously, there are more?

Geno watches as Black Hawk stiffens, then rolls his eyes and mutters, “Took you long enough.”

The new guy definitely does not have what Geno considers to be a typical superhero look.

He’s short--well, shorter than Sid, Geno, or Black Hawk--and dressed conspicuously in red leather, wielding twin sai, which Geno only recognizes because Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was one of the few cartoons his tv showed back in Russia when he was a kid, and Raphael had always been his favorite.

“Call me Red.” he says to Geno with a cocky smirk, “Or Kaner, whatever.”

“That’s not what they call you back in Chicago, “ Black Hawk retorts, somewhat snidely, and Kaner flushes, saying “Jesus, Jonny, don’t be a douche.”

“They call him the Red Unicorn,” Sid supplies helpfully to Geno as Black Hawk and Kaner start bickering, “When he attacks, he always holds his sais above his head, like a horn.” Sid then breaks off, smothers a giggle (which Geno finds adorable) and continues, “and I think there was some incident where he got drunk and was caught on camera parading around wearing a unicorn head.”

Huh. So this is the crack team that’s going to help take down a criminal empire in Geno’s city.

Geno wonders if it’s not too late to get a plane ticket back to Russia.

\--------

Sid, Geno, Black Hawk, and Red Unicorn (“Seriously, call me Red!”) conference for the rest of the night, pooling their knowledge and coming up with a plan that can take the Orca’s empire down with as few casualties as possible.

“Unfortunately, our presence will have to be minimal on this,” Black Hawk informs Sid, much to his dismay. “We have some trouble brewing back in Chicago. Four blonde brothers from Thunder Bay are trying to get control of the black market. They blew in like hurricanes, man. That’s taking up a lot of our immediate focus.”

“I understand,” Sid says, and Geno realizes that it’s going to just be the two of them, all alone against Pittsburgh’s dark underworld. Aside from the dark underworld part, Geno actually likes the sound of that.

Red, in a seemingly rare display of wisdom--judging by the look on Black Hawk’s face--delivers a more optimistic understanding of the situation. “Guys like the Orca, they don’t want to share anything. They like to perch themselves at the top of the food chain and guarantee nothing for the rest of the animal kingdom. It means his guys will turn the moment the wind shifts. Knock the Orca off his pedestal, and the rest will fall apart.”

Sid nods, looking sober and troubled, and Geno wants nothing more than to get back home, take Sid’s mask off, and hold him tightly, until the crease leaves his eyebrows. What they’re doing, what they’re about to do, it’s not like stopping a couple of muggers on the streets. Orca has shown no capitulations about killing, and Sid is so righteous, so moral in his pursuit of justice that he would never take a life.

Sid’s idea of justice is the life he never got to live: where children have their parents and are safe and healthy and never have to fear that the world will take from them everything they love and hold dear.

But the Orca is beyond that philosophical scale. He is real, and visceral and will not hesitate to destroy everything that Sid has managed to make for himself in the years since he became the Penguin. Geno thinks of Fleury, DuPuis, and Mario at the paper; Kunitz, Vero, and Bylsma on the force; and he thinks of himself.

He loves Sid, there is no doubt of that. But what if he becomes a target? Can he let himself become something Sid is distracted by, something that could prove a liability for him? What if Sid has to compromise himself over Geno--kill someone, even? Would Sid be able to do that? Geno doesn’t know, and he’s not sure he wants to even think about it.

He brushes the thought out of his head and turns back to the vigilantes in front of him. “Will be okay,” Geno says, slowly, and only Red responds quickly, with a “Yeah!” that makes Geno wonder how old the kid is.

Jonny nods and takes off, Red in tow, with a brief goodbye, and Sid stays lost in thought until Geno finally nudges him.

“Sid. Is getting late. Time for bed.”

Sid glances up at Geno, and for a moment, his face relaxes. “Yeah,” he murmurs, and he’s so distracted that he lets Geno throw an arm around his shoulders as they walk away.

\---------

In the following weeks, things don’t get better. The Orca may have considered the orphanage fire his pièce de résistance, but that doesn’t mean he’s let up with the vandalism, mayhem and overall chaos. Between the cops and Sid, the worst of the damage is mitigated, but that doesn’t stop Orca’s goons from creating a general atmosphere of terror.

The Penguin is out every night, from dusk until dawn, and Sid spends his days blank-faced and haggard, churning out his reports at the newspaper with barebones efficiency and garnering the concern of nearly everyone around him.

“Dude,” Fleury says, cornering Geno in the men’s room, “What the hell is going on with Crosby? He looks like he hasn’t slept in ages. Don’t tell me your sex life is that exciting, eh?” Despite the joking tone, his eyes are tinged with worry.

Geno makes his excuses, you know how Sid is, yadda yadda, but in truth he doesn’t know what the hell is going on with Sid either. The man barely speaks anymore, going about his nightly patrols alone, and returning solemn and bruised the next morning. Any offer of aid that Geno might make is met with staunch refusal, as if Sid can barely stomach the idea of Geno being out there with him. And Geno knows what Sid isn’t saying, that Geno would be a burden, a distraction.

But watching Sid spiral into obsession is more painful than he could have imagined.

The light, easy banter of before; the shy smiles promising an embrace; the look of pride that Sid gave to Geno when he disclosed the reasons for putting on the cape and mask--all of it is gone. He lives with a ghost now.

And Geno can’t help but feel angry, resentful even, that Sid cannot see that he is merely a man. That he can’t do alone what the entire police force of Pittsburgh is failing to accomplish. The weekly pick-up games of hockey are all but a memory now. Every able-bodied officer has been recruited to tracking Orca down, figuring out how far his organization reaches. The news is troubling.

The last time he saw Kunitz and Vero, they were just as pale and grim as Sid. It was at the last game they would play together, about two weeks ago. Sid had played brutally that night, making it all the more apparent how exhausted he really was, relying on force rather than his usual skillful moves.

Geno had caught Bylsma afterward, wanting to know for himself how the hunt was coming. Sid’s updates had become sporadic, despite his frequent outings, and Geno doesn’t remember the last time they had a conversation about anything other than the most basic of subjects.

Bylsma was just as forthcoming as Sid, unfortunately, but when Geno had inquired after the Penguin, he saw a softening in the thick lines of the man’s face.

“Facing a common enemy has definitely changed a lot of perceptions on the force. Certainly it doesn’t hurt that the man actually manages to track down far more leads on his own than we can. We’re not close, mind you, but every little bit counts.”

Geno was dismayed at the lack of progress, but felt comforted at least that the Penguin was no longer considered an enemy. When he relayed this to the Chief, he chuckled wearily, “I’m not sure the man was ever considered an enemy.”

Geno was curious. “Man who dresses up and fight crime--not give police a bad name?”

“Honestly,” and Bylsma gave Geno a long-suffering look tinged with fondness, “he’s so goddamn polite and hates making a nuisance of himself. Most of us on the force actually like him, not that we could put that on the record.”

“But what he is doing--ultimately is breaking law, no?”

Bylsma was silent for a moment, then replied, “If we’re going by semantics, then yes. He is a vigilante and enacts vigilante justice. If it ever comes to it, we will have to arrest him.” He looks Geno square in the eye, “But I hope I never have to. I trust this city to him, to the Penguin. He hasn’t let me down yet.”

And Geno may have been seeing things, but he can’t help but think he saw Bylsma’s eyes flash to Sid quickly as he said it.

\---------

The realization of how important the Penguin was to this effort doesn’t do anything to allay Geno’s depression. In fact, it makes him see just how tightly wound Sid has become, and Geno worries what will happen when the thread that holds his sanity together snaps.

And Geno, like the coward he is, doesn’t know how to fix things. No one ever taught him how to date an intense, antisocial reporter-cum-vigilante when he played hockey for Russia.

So one night, a week or so after this realization, Geno finds himself at the bar, perhaps a little buzzed. He’s only had a little alcohol, after all. Not a whole lot of vodka, really.

“Was champion drinker back in Magnitogorsk,” he tells the bartender, and it’s only when the bartender gives him a look that he realizes that he said it in Russian.

Well, Geno might be a little more than buzzed. But some nights he deserves to get drunk, especially nights when his boyfriend ditched him to fight a crazy masked Russian who calls himself the Orca.

Geno tips back one more shot and is briefly horrified by the thought that Sid could wear away his ass fighting the Orca.

Well, Geno muses, if Sid loses the ass, he still has the lips. And the scarves. Though Sid keeping the scarves might not be a good thing.

Geno sighs and downs another shot, contemplating the shittiness of Sid ditching him for fighting Orca. If Geno’s being perfectly honest with himself--and now he must be really drunk, because he only thinks like this when he’s smashed--he’s jealous. Orca’s taking up so much of Sid’s time, Geno frowns. Obviously, this is a problem.

He is selfish, he knows this. Geno has worked so hard to leave Russia, the the KHL and all its associated bullshit behind and he came to Pittsburgh to be free and open with the one he loves. But now he feels more closeted than ever. He wants so much from Sid, and it had been easy at first to think of what he did as the Penguin as a game of sorts--the dressing up, the knocking out of thugs and rescuing Genos-in-distress.

But the Orca is a real threat. He isn’t some drunk guy at a bar getting rough. His presence puts things into perspective for Geno, giving him a glimpse into the future, where Sid retreats from himself further with every new threat, leaving Geno to embrace a shadow.

Geno doesn’t know if he can love the Penguin the way he loves Sid. And that thought that  he’ll always be losing Sid to a place, a person, that he can’t reach does nothing to sober him.

Geno’s stumbling out of the bar, and by now he’s gotten pretty worked up, when he lands, literally, in the laps of three of Orca’s thugs spray-painting a wall. Well, Geno realises later, they should have been graffitiing a wall, but instead, they’re sitting on the ground passing around a blunt.

That’s what saves (well, saves is subjective) him in the end, because the thugs are distracted and high enough that they don’t react quite as quickly as they should. Not that Geno’s operating at top capacity here, either, thank god he’s not trying to drive home, but he’s already angry and when he sees the outline of “ORCA FUX THA PENGUIN” on the wall, Geno flips and tries to take the three of them on all at once.

Were Geno sober, he’d think that this was quite possibly the worst idea he’s ever had. But the first guy lands on his ass and starts giggling, the second gets a good punch in and trips over Geno’s outstretched leg, and the third one manages to split Geno’s lip, and that’s about it. The first musy finally get it in his head to call for reinforcements, since that group is obviously pretty ineffective against a six-foot-four Russian hockey player, even in a three-on-one and when Geno is so drunk he can barely smack any of them around properly. Sergei would be so disappointed in these punches.

Later, Geno’s not sure if he’d rather the three had just been sober and just kicked his ass. At least Sid would have patched him up and, well, TLC from Sid sounds pretty good to Geno. Unfortunately, that was not the case, because Geno suddenly wakes, hearing a familiar language, feeling a hangover and noting that his wrists are tied together. He has no memory of the final blows that knocked him out.

Geno has never actually seen the Orca, and doesn’t know what he was expecting. A gap-toothed smile fills his vision, and Geno blinks back surprise before getting a good look at the man standing in front of him. He has the kind of face that looks like it’s been rearranged by fists over the years, and the blunted features of his cheeks and nose, actually do, in some perverse manner, resemble those of an Orca.

“Good morning, Zhenya,” Orca smiles widely, and the diminutive startles Geno.

“Uh, good morning,” he replies by reflex, realising that they’re speaking Russian.

“So you’re the young man, hmmm? The one Mister Penguin holds so dearly?” Orca hums. “You two have been giving me and my men some trouble lately.”

Orca pauses and then says, unexpectedly, “But I know all about you, Evgeni Malkin. Your reputation precedes you. Number seventy-one, no?”

Geno’s nearly shaking in his seat. He’s not sure if it’s rage or fear, but the almost casual drop of his number throws him off. “You follow hockey?” he manages, and Orca’s gap teeth make another showing.

“Yes, yes, much. I was a hockey player, once. Do you remember me? We were thirteen, playing in a tournament in Moscow. You were very good, yes, beat my team soundly.”

Geno tries to recall Orca, but draws a blank. “What was your name?” he asks, realizing that the chances of Orca telling him the truth are slim.

Orca laughs. “I could tell you, but then I really would kill you. No, let me tell you a story instead, of how I got this name. You know I played hockey, very young. My family was poor, though, so hockey was an escape, but also a chance to bring my family out of poverty.

“Unfortunately, it wasn’t my only hobby. I hustled on the streets of Moscow, for side cash. I was young, full of charm, and so completely naive. I suppose, in hindsight, I was easy pickings for the Mafia. They needed boys on the street, you see, for runners and pickers. They promised a cut of whatever they sold if I helped them. I was a small town boy. How could I resist? Hockey would have taken me years, but this was now, immediate, and I never was very patient.” Orca smiles.

“Why are you telling me this?” Geno spits out.

For a moment, Orca looks lost and lonely, like the boy he must have been. “Because I could not tell The Penguin this. He sees things in black and white, just like his suit. He’s not like you and me, Geno. We are fighters, yes, but we also want to live. You want to live free, and I want to live on the top.

“Penguin sits inside his circumscribed world like an overgrown boy at play and doesn’t know how to let the toys act on their own. He’s afraid of letting go, you know. Afraid that if he leaves the playset, it won’t be there waiting for him when he returns. So he cannot leave. And he cannot be with you. Not in the way you want, or need. And so, that will be his undoing. He loves this city so much, he will go down with it.”

A pause, and then,

“Tell me, Geno, is his ass as spectacular in person as I have heard? Word gets around, you know.”

Geno wants to castrate Orca with a dull spoon.

“Ah, but you are angry with me! Maybe you won’t feel so mad once you know how I got this way. The mafia, you are well aware, values loyalty. But I was a little shit, thinking I could leave it all behind and return to hockey. You were around eighteen at that time, and making waves in the KHL. I looked up to you, you know? You had everything I wanted. Ironic, now.

“But the mafia did not want their prize acquisition leaving the fold. And so they taught me a lesson. Broke every bone in my body. Made sure I could never play again.”

Geno is horrified; looking over Orca, and under the bitter smile adorning Orca’s face, he can see the odd set to his bones. It’s unsettling, and Geno turns his attention back to Orca’s voice.

“You expect one to run away after something like that. But no, not me. This is where we differ, Zhenya, for where you ran from your difficulties, I endured. I built my body back up, piece by piece. I lingered in the shadows, training, while playing the obedient dog to the Mafia. Until it was time. For you know the Orca is frequently underestimated. Disarms with a smile, or a laugh. But then you remember,” Orca pauses and his gaze is frighteningly intense. “That Orca has another name. And will not hesitate to kill for its own gain.”

“So I took them down, those who had made me like this. Crippled, weak, never able to hold a hockey stick again. But I grew strong in other ways, became crafty and honed my strength to its bare essentials. I left Moscow burning.”

“But there’s more to having the world in your hands than just Moscow, and I’ve heard great things about the American mafia.” Orca grinned widely. “Your friend, the, ah, the Bear? He is very tall, and he is next on my list. Him and French Canadian. Once I wave the suit of The Penguin in their faces, they will fall. Black Hawk and his pointy-horned friend, all these stupid men that put on costumes and masks to fight for justice, who cannot even show their faces? They will see that real justice is the slow, devastating pursuit and acquisition of the goal.”

Geno has a flashback to charging the net back in Russia, Varlamov no match for the ruthless force of his backhand, and realises that Orca has made taking down the defenses of Pittsburgh into a twisted hockey game of sorts: brutal yet elegant, carefully designed yet focused on the moment. But every team has its opposition, and Geno’s picked a good group of guys too. People who won’t give up, who will attack as well as defend. Every player on the ice now, more than ever, has to make their presence known.

Geno’s always been good at dominating play.

Geno has been listening to the monologue, yes, but he has also been slowly working his restraints off, and as Orca’s phone ‘bings’ and the man looks down to check it, Geno sees his chance. They’re in a small room, so it’s not hard for Geno’s long frame to reach out to Orca’s body and--well, he almost had Orca, Geno consoles himself later--Orca swings around and his fist connects with Geno’s cheekbone in a way that Geno hasn’t felt since fighting in the KHL.

He likes the challenge.

He doesn’t even bother to remove his metaphorical gloves, railing on Orca until they’re slamming each other into walls. Geno’s got a shiner for tomorrow, he knows, but he holds his own until Orca kicks him in his bad knee and Geno crumples for one long, agonizing moment.

“Zhenya, Zhenya,” Orca chuckles. “How did you think I would not know that?”

Geno swears in a manner most unbefitting to his nickname. “Fuck you, Orca,” he grunts, and at that, Orca full-out laughs.

“Don’t try that with me.” In a swift motion, Orca kicks Geno’s knee and leaps over him to grab the now abandoned wrist ties. “Interesting that you got these off. I suppose you’ve got longer fingers than most of the people I’ve had in here.” Orca sniffs. “I won’t be making that mistake again.”

“No. You won’t,” comes a familiar voice from the doorway, and Geno’s heart soars.

Sid charges in, puck in his left hand and right already curled into a fist, eyes wildly taking in Geno, curled on the floor around his knee, and Orca, smugly fondling the ties.

“Oh, look who decided to join us,” Orca smirks.

Sid’s not wavering, though, and the words are barely out of Orca’s mouth, the anger

barely into Geno’s throat, when Sid is on Orca pummeling him with an intensity Geno’s shocked to see. He’s still curled up on the floor, his knee spasming in pain, but watches Sid whaling on the Orca, backing him into a corner.

Orca swings, once, twice, before falling backwards into the wall, chin flying up at a well aimed punch from the Penguin. For a moment, Geno thinks he see the lingering weakness in Orca’s bones, as they quiver under Sid’s assault.

Geno stares as Sid throws Orca up against the doorframe, and Geno can see out through it that they’re on a rooftop of some kind, in the middle of the city.

Sid and Orca continue to grapple, Geno considers it a sign of insanity that he watches the Penguin’s leather-clad ass clenching with each blow against Orca—one moment it’s his face, the next his shoulder, then his groin.

Geno realises that he’s terrified. Terrified that Sid won’t stop, that he will take it too far that Sid will lose himself to Penguin and that that will be the end of the man that Geno loves.  

The intensity is radiating out from Penguin; Orca’s rage can’t hold up to the years of anger and pain behind Penguin fists.

“Sid,” Geno forces out, and when Penguin turns around, his eyes are dark, and there’s no trace of Sid in them. (And for a moment that lasts an eternity, Geno thinks he’s lost him.)

But the Penguin blinks, and Sid slowly emerges from the leathered mask. “Yeah,” he breathes, huskily, and turns to cuffs Orca’s hands behind his back. Orca’s slumped against the wall, now, beaten soundly though Geno can still see the proud, fiery rage in him.

“Careful with him,” Geno adds, and Sid raises his eyebrows and extends a hand out to help Geno up.

“I’m turning him in myself,” Sid says firmly, and Geno hopes that that will be enough.

They step outside of the room, onto the roof--Geno sees now that Orca had him in the electric control room for the skyscraper and wonders how Orca got them up there-- Geno limping, and Sid holding onto Orca tightly, hands on his shoulders and wrists. It’s windy, he realises, and Sid’s wings are flapping around. Orca’s stumbling, and Geno’s so focused on just walking, with his leg like this, that he doesn’t notice until Sid and Orca are brawling again that Orca had worked himself free.

“Sid!” Geno yells, but it’s carried away in the wind and he can only limp over to where the two men are nearly at the edge, watching Sid’s chin jerk back form a punch, helplessly see Orca dodge Sid’s fists.

The next sequence of events goes like this:

He sees the moment that Orca lunges at Sid, and Sid knocks him back. Back onto his left foot, and he steps back with his right as Sid moves forwards to capitalise on Orca’s momentary loss of balance.

He watches as Orca realizes that he’s lost his footing, that his right foot moving backwards was over the edge. Sees him scramble to grab Sid’s wrist, Sid’s confusion until two-hundred pounds of Orca yank down on his arm, as Orca stumbles backwards.

They freeze, suspended in the moment, Orca hanging for his life from the Penguin’s hand. Sid is yelling something, but the noise of the wind is too loud for Geno to hear. He does see him reach out with his other hand, try to pull Orca up. He can’t see Orca, now, only Sid, but Geno watches in muted horror as Sid spasms, screaming something frantically before slumping against the rooftop, drawing up the hand that Orca had held. It’s empty.

\--------

Sid’s not in any kind of state to make his usual phone call to Carol, then, so Geno dials the number on Sid’s phone and explains, numbly, what happened. He avoids any mention of who he is, just saying that he was kidnapped by Orca, that the Penguin had arrived and described with numb detachment the events on the rooftop. He gives the first-ever description of Orca, and by the time they are done on the phone, Geno wants to leave this place behind as quickly as possible.

Geno can’t look over the ledge to see Orca’s body. He spends a moment mourning the man who had gone so far astray, realizing that, in another life, they have have been friends and rivals on the ice. He wonders who had let go first. Did Orca really want to be saved?

\--------

The return to Sid’s apartment is again like something out of the Twilight Zone. Everything is so mundane that it’s almost unreal: the piled up mail on the table by the door, the unmade bed from this morning, a pair of socks left nonchalantly by the couch. It’s hard to imagine that just an hour ago, Geno had been facing the end of his life.

They don’t talk. Sid goes about tidying up the place, while Geno heats up some leftover pasta for dinner. They eat, then take turns showering and seeing to their wounds.

Later, Geno sits in bed and reflects. The slow, growing distance between the two of them over the last few weeks had done its damage: Sid’s unwillingness to confide in his fears with Geno, the trauma of the orphanage fire, and the bodily stress of his constant vigilance over the city; for Geno, it had been the gradual realization that the man he loved was only half present, that he had put so much of himself into building this life with Sid, only to find that the more he gave, the more Sid retreated into the shadows, unable to accept the happiness he had to offer. In its own way, the Penguin had been more of a cage for Sid than being in the closet has ever been for Geno.

He wonders what it says about himself that he always chooses the hardest possible route, in life and in love.

“I’m sorry.” He hears, and Geno is forced out of his musing.

Sid doesn’t look at Geno, just stares out the window. But Geno doesn’t need to look at Sid’s face to see regret, both for letting Orca fall and for letting things between them get to this point. He thinks back to the first time he met Sidney, the day after being saved by the Penguin. How Sid had looked shy and a little surprised (explained now, obviously) but genuinely happy to meet Geno.

And there had been no going back. It feels like he had been living all his life for that moment, just to meet Sid.

And now they are here, nearly a year later and neither of them wiser. But it seems silly now, to have wished for something uncomplicated. Love, fear, sorrow, they are the common denominators of his life, of any life, the same for Sidney. That they were able to meet, and connect, that’s the easy part. But the next step is all on them.

And Geno has never truly been a coward.

They should have had this talk the first time Geno figured it out. But he doesn’t waste time scolding himself, and takes Sid’s hand, leading him onto the bed so they face each other. Sidney’s face is cut-up slightly, his bottom lip swollen from a hit and the bags under his eyes are dark and heavy. He looks exhausted, and Geno’s sure his own face looks the same way. Despite that, he reaches forward and presses one gentle kiss to the side of his mouth that isn’t bruised, and breathes in deeply the clean, freshly-showered smell of the man before speaking, hoping to god he can get it all out in English.

“Sid can't be Penguin all the time. Penguin can't be Sid when it suits him. Have life now, have people who care. Keeping both halves separated--will end up killing you.”

Sid looks pained, “I know it was hard for you to see that. Sometimes, I don’t even know who I really am. The Penguin can do things, say things, that Sidney Crosby can’t. Sometimes, Geno,” and he pauses and gives Geno a small, miserable smile, “I don’t know how to be a person.”

This must be something Sid keeps locked inside himself, deep down. The calm, competent facade he presents at the newspaper, and the robustly confident mask the Penguin wears--Geno wonders if they are all constructs of a man who has been devastated by pain, loneliness and longing his whole life.

This is the real Sid, Geno realizes, this vulnerable man stripped to his bare essence by the events tonight, yet who still finds the strength and courage to trust in Geno. He feels like he’s meeting this man for the first time, and never wants to let the intimacy of this moment go.  

“I teach you, Sid, you are not alone.” Geno cradles his face gently, wanting to be as close as possible, “I know what you are fighting for, how hard you work. But don’t you see, how you’ve saved so many lives, changed things for better. That’s not Penguin, that’s you. You care, you make Penguin possible. That’s Sid I love.”

A tear slips down Sidney’s cheek, “The Penguin, for so long, was the only time I felt truly myself. But that changed, when you came. You saw me, Sid, the orphan boy who dreamt of being a hockey player and settled for writing about it, and you liked it. More than the Penguin, you liked Sid.”

Geno can tell that he is still surprised by that, and wonders how anyone could have looked at Sid and wanted anything different. Maybe it’s a good thing, though, that Geno can have this all for himself.

“Like Sid best.”

“You like my ass the best.” Sid replies, with a wry smile that Geno is thrilled to see.

“Ass is part of Sid, favorite part, but the whole package best.”

Sid laughs, face still wet with tears, and Geno thinks its the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

But Geno isn’t done yet. Pressing his forehead against the man he loves, he whispers, “Is okay to want something for yourself. Not as Penguin, but as Sid.”

And Sidney replies, serious as a prayer, “I want you, Geno. Every part of me does.”

Geno feels shaky, overwhelmed with the realization that he can do this for Sid--unite all those disparate aspects of his identity, help guide him towards a more fully complete and happy version of himself. That just by being himself, something he’s been afraid to do for so long, he can provide something greater than he’s ever imagined.

That upon this foundation, the two of them can build something together, something stable and long lasting. It’s a better outcome than anything he could have imagined when he moved to Pittsburgh.

Geno knows he couldn’t possibly express everything he feels in his horrible English, and decides to make Sid understand the precious knowledge he holds by leaning forward and kissing Sid, smoothly and deeply.

Having sex with Sidney has been the main event of his nocturnal fantasies, and the intimacy they’ve built up over the last few months had not extended much past slow exploration with hands and mouths. Geno imagined that Sid would be breathy and responsive, but ultimately lacking in real finesse. He fancied the idea that he would have to teach Sid, showing him the pleasure of his own body.

But Sidney had proven to be more experienced than he had thought, enthusiastic in a way that belied his often tightly-wound demeanor. He indeed knew his own body, knew what felt good and how to make Geno feel good in return, and Geno was content to go at whatever pace their relationship dictated.

But now they are nearly frantic, yanking their clothes off and clutching each other, as though just realizing the near-fatal end their night had just taken, and they are sloppy and uncoordinated with their limbs and their rhythm is desperately unfocused. For a while, they just thrust against one another’s bodies, hands grabbing, clutching at their hair and mouths refusing to separate.

Geno feels dizzy with lust, or lack of oxygen, and with one fluid motion, grabs Sid’s legs, yanks them apart, and settles his cock against Sid’s.

Sid breaks from their furied kissing to laugh loudly, ecstatically. At Geno’s questioning look, he begins to honk, mirth uncontrollable and Geno can’t help but respond with a grin of his own--so fucking happy to be here, finally, to have everything laid bare between them. He wants to sink into Sid’s smile, and never leave it.

“What so funny, Sid?” Geno nips at his neck, and Sidney gasps out his next laugh in reaction.

“This-- is so not the best time, but I uh--god, Geno--I just had a thought--” Sid giggles again.

Now Geno is curious, “Am not enough to keep you occupied?” He asks, taking sinful pleasure in the curve of Sid’s ass in his palms, squeezing and probing with his finger into the dark clench of his hole.

“Haah, no! Keep, um, keep going!” Sid manages, “Just, some penguin fact that I randomly remembered.”

“Want to hear all about Penguins, Sid.” Geno teases, rubbing his dick along the slick line of Sid’s perineum, and Sid groans, breath catching in anticipation.

“Um, god, you’re going to kill me, but Penguins do this thing, where they press their bottoms together, and there’s this opening called the cloaca. And when Penguins mate, they press their cloaca together, and it’s called the Cloacal Kiss.” Sid’s face is flaming red, and not for the usual sexy-reasons. “I don’t know why I just thought of that. Jeez, just ignore me. Let’s keep going.”

Geno has to stop humping Sid, because he breaks down in laughter. The two of them remain for more than a moment, convulsing, and it’s so lovely to laugh in bed. Such a luxury Geno never thought he could afford.

“Sid want me to fuck him penguin-style?” Geno manages to get out.

Sid sputters, and then hiccups some more laughter. After they calm down, Sid shyly adds, “Penguins mate for pleasure and pair bonding. When you see a penguin mating, it means it’s happy. That’s why you see so many male-pairings.”

Geno imagines Sid at 10, features too big for his face, furiously concentrating on learning facts about his favorite animal. It’s a cute picture, though Geno much prefers the adult version he has laid out in front of him.

“I mate with you now, Sid. Kiss your clo..coac...whatever is called.” Geno attempts with no real effort.

“God, stop it Geno. Just fuck me.” Sid implores, looking ernest and handsome and Geno would give anything in his possession to satisfy Sidney.

So Geno fucks him.

And it’s better than any sex he’s had before, because it’s Sid, of course, and it’s made better by the connection, the love between them. Geno sinks into the warm heat of his body and never wants to leave, and feels out Sid’s strong, powerful muscles with his hands, remembering with fondness the first time he saw the Penguin and his sculpted, hard body.

That he has this body now, all to himself, is a potent feeling, and Geno never wants to make Sid feel like he regretted this decision, to share himself so freely.

Geno devotes the next twenty minutes (and the rest of their lives, in his mind) to taking Sid apart, fucking alternately roughly and gently, sucking a necklace of bruises into his neck, and reaching down to pump at Sid’s straining dick with easy, assured movements.

And Geno watches with rapt concentration as Sid's breathing gets heavier, harder, and his moaning crescendos, getting higher the more Geno thrusts. When he finally comes, it's with a gasp more akin to a squeak and Geno feels satisfaction deep into his bones, and continues to fuck in and out, reveling in the glaze of Sid’s eyes, the looseness of his limbs, and the obscene squelch of noise where they meet.

“Geno,” Sid sighs out, and his name becomes a soft sigh of a refrain that echoes in Geno’s head until he can’t take it anymore, and he spends himself inside of Sid, groaning his name with furious intensity.

They lie together on the bed, panting, and Geno’s still a little dazed when he notices that Sid is getting mildly hard again, and he raises his eyebrows in surprise. He’s not quite sure he can handle more right now, and he’s glad there’s humour in Sid’s eyes when Sid says, “So, round two?”

It’s not entirely a joke, though, and Geno finds himself wondering if Sid literally has balls of steel. Geno shudders in a mix of unease and arousal. This could get interesting.

\--------

After they have finished snuggling and Sid has made a post-coital breakfast to end wars, he and Geno sit down to deal with some unfinished business.

“Yeah?” Black Hawk asks, when they call, and Sid’s malaise seems to be wearing off at the chance to update his fellow heroes on their recent success.

“Get Red on too, he’ll want to hear this.” Sid orders brusquely and Geno hides a smirk, pleased to hear the familiar tone of command.

“Yelloooo! Wassup, boys?” Red shouts when Black Hawk’s gotten them on speakerphone.

“Orca has been defeated,” Sid informs them, a small grin of triumph stealing over his face, for the first time in weeks.

Black Hawk audibly perks up. “He’s done for? You got him?”

Sid’s growing smugness has got to be obvious, even through the phone. “Yep.”

“You beat him? Shitters legitters, over with?” There’s no way that’s not the Unicorn, glee in full swing.

Geno takes over, Sid’s boastful tone beginning to wane as the memory of the rooftop passes over his eyes.

“Yes, off a roof. He dropped himself. Sid tried to save, but nothing. That’s the end of Orca,” Geno adds, clucking under his breath, and Sid comes back to himself.

“So, yeah, good luck with those Thunder Bay guys. Let us know if you end up needing our expertise,” Sid says magnanimously and Geno wants to snuggle the snot out of Sid.

So he does.

\--------

Sid and Geno are out for dinner, Sid wearing another colorful scarf, this time to cover up the myriad of bruises Geno left on his neck the night before. Geno thinks this is adorable.

But of course neither of them can have a simple date night, so Geno’s not that surprised when their pleasant stroll through the alleys behind Sid’s old hockey rec center is interrupted by a doped-up hooligan, looking for cash.

Sid’s calm warnings don’t seem to deter the man, whose eyes flash with a manic sort of glee. Sid, always prepared, even on date night, retrieves a puck full of knock-out gas from his pocket and hurls it at Crazy-eyes.

Except in a move neither of them expected, the guy seems to slide around the puck, dodging it effectively so that it clatters against the ground, impact dulled enough so that it merely leaks a little of the foul smelling gas.

Sid, probably sensing that this isn’t your run-of-the-mill fiend, settles into a fighting stance, whipping out his Penguin mask, and Geno wisely moves out of their way, edging towards the middle of the alley, bumping up against some old gear leaning against the trash bin.

Geno watches Crazy-eyes come at Sid, stance broadcasting that he’s too desperate to care about whom he hurts, and realizes that this isn’t a game, isn’t something Sid can easily get out of.

What Sid does, it’s real and it’s dangerous. And Geno cares too much to let anything hurt him.

He doesn’t think about it. He just grabs an old hockey stick from where it’s resting against the side of the brick wall, takes aim, and, calling upon thirteen years of training and precision, whacks one of Sid’s abandoned pucks as hard as he can towards Crazy-eyes and watches in satisfaction as the puck hits the man square between said eyes.

Crazy-eyes drops like a stone, felled by one of Geno’s fabled slap shots. He’s still got it.

Sid, clutching at his wounded side, yet still poised to take on the attack, blinks in confusion at the enemy who lays unconscious on the ground, and then turns to stare at Geno.

Geno preens a little at the look of awe and appreciation on Sid’s face, and says, “Not helpless, Sid. Am hockey player, you know. Still have some moves.”

“Yeah,” Sid replies, voice a little husky, and Geno’s stomach flips a little at the sudden heat in Sid’s gaze.

It doesn’t take much thinking to walk forward, stepping over Crazy-eye’s body, reach out a palm and push Sid against the wall of the alley. Sid sucks in a breath with a small sound, and all Geno wants to do right now is be as close as possible. He’s torn between taking off Sid’s mask to watch his face or to savor the illicit thrill he’s gotten from manhandling the Penguin, who’s starred in a number of Geno’s fantasies for the last several weeks. To know that they are one in the same, that he can have both the Penguin and Sid...well, his libido doesn’t stand a chance.

Geno leans forward to nip softly at Sidney’s lips, reveling in their softness and their yield against his teeth. Slowly, leisurely, Geno lets his tongue wet both their mouths before making his way up Sid’s face, kissing softly at the point where mask meets skin, right below his eyes and across the bridge of his nose. All the while, Geno feels out the strong, defined muscles of the Penguin’s abs with one hand while the other goes for gold, reaching around and cupping the swell of a perfect ass and squeezing. His hand, large even for a hockey player, can barely fit it all and Geno is so hard it hurts.

“Geno,” comes the breathy sigh against him, and Geno loves hearing Sid’s voice coming from the Penguin’s mouth; he catches that sigh with his mouth and drops all pretense of being distracted by other parts of Sid’s body as he grabs for the second ass cheek and, using a good amount of strength, lifts Sid by his ass and thrusts himself into the welcome crease between groin and thigh.

They remain like that, panting and arching into each other for a few more moments before Sid breaks off a particularly wet and dirty kiss with a mumbled, “Wait, Geno...”

Geno, takes out his frustration with being denied Sidney’s lips by sucking into his neck, moans inquisitively and then sadly as Sid braces his hands against Geno’s shoulders and pushes him away.

“What’s wrong, I do what you not like?”

“No, no, god, no--I just wanted to...” Sid swallows, flares bright red and proceeds to spin Geno around so that he’s now bracketed against the wall.

Sid looks hesitant for a moment and Geno watches, barely breathing, as a familiar expression of resolution and determination comes over his features before he sinks to his knees.

Geno swears loudly, and thinks about how inappropriate this is--Crazy-eyes is still knocked out only feet away--and it’s so hot. Sid reaches for his belt and zipper and Geno fears that if he even brushes against his cock, he’ll blow.

Sid must sense Geno’s desperation because he breathes slowly, deeply, encouraging Geno to do the same and rubbing Geno’s thighs in soothing circles. When Geno is able to regain control, he gives Sid a nod and he continues his work, freeing Geno’s dick and eyeing it speculatively as it twitches and throbs in his hand.

Sid looks up, a gleam in his eye and he has never been more attractive to Geno, and says, “This is for saving my life.”

Then the Penguin proceeds to suck Geno’s brains out through his cock.

Geno spares a moment to wonder where the hell Sid learned this, but then figures that, like in all things, Sidney Crosby never merely wants to be good at something, he wants to master it. He certainly masters Geno, sucking wetly and drawing Geno into the sublime tightness of his mouth, pink lips stretched obscenely over his dick as he gets right to working it back and forth.

It doesn’t take long--Geno is already wired from the adrenaline rush and the tension of the evening--but he makes himself savor this moment, thinking back briefly to furtive blowjobs back in Russia, both giving and recieving, always in the shadows and in secret. Their circumstances here are not so different, but Geno feels a freedom with Sid that he has never felt before, nor had allowed for himself before. It makes things all the more sweeter so see Sidney below him, who is always so contained, always so hesitant to let himself be happy, yet gives himself over with abandon to please the people around him, whether it’s fighting crime, submitting the perfect article or showing Geno more pleasure than he could have imagined.

It makes him want to weep, and it makes him want to kill anyone that would take this away from the both of him. He wants to protect Sid, too. He wants to fight alongside him, and make sure Sid knows, he’s not alone. Not anymore.

Geno comes with that thought, fingers clenching around the leather of Sid’s mask and Sid drinks him down and looks up, eyes bleary and mouth slack with use.

Later, after they return to Sid’s apartment, Geno returns the favor. Of course Sid had to wait first, calling in the police for Crazy-eyes, then securing the man to a lightpost. But he eventually grabs for Geno, rushing with him back to the safety of Sid’s bed, where Geno can finish the job of making him moan and cry out.

As they rest, sated, arms curled around each other, Geno approaches the topic.

“Sid. Tonight, I helped. I want to protect you.”

Sid turns to face him, features lit up by the glow of the moon coming in from the window. Geno can’t make out his expression though, and continues, “I have skill, you saw that. I can use my strength, my accuracy. Penguins have partners, no? Is true for real life, should be true for Sid.”

“You want...to be my sidekick?” Sid’s tone is incredulous.

“Not sidekick, no. Partner.” Geno reiterates, and Sid’s face contorts into something inscrutable before opening itself up. He sees Sid’s fear, his reluctance to let Geno into danger. He also sees hope,like it had never occurred to Sid that he could have this, have everything he wanted. Geno waits, and watches as Sid’s face settles on happiness, grinning brightly with no trace of shyness. It’s beautiful. Geno wants to bottle it and carry it around forever.

“Partner. I like the sound of that.” Sid pauses, thoughtfully. “You’ll need a name, though.”

Geno couldn’t care less, but this is important to Sid, so he offers some suggestions. Sid vetoes them all, and Geno, with fond exasperation, says, “Sid know so much about penguins. Who be their friend?”

“Well most arctic animals eat penguins,”  Sid remarks “But, I always liked the Harp seals. They have these white furry bodies and black eyes and are extremely social animals, kind of noisy as well,” Sid’s grin turns into a honking laugh as Geno reaches over and tickles his side as punishment, “No, wait! That’s a good thing! They’re easy to get along with and...well, this sounds kind of geeky, but their scientific name, Pagophilus groenlandicus, means ‘ice lover from Greenland.’”   

“Not from Greenland, Sid.”

“I know,” Sid says, rolling his eyes, “But I thought the first part was kind of fitting. Ice Lover.”

Geno finds that he would endure any ridiculous name for the look on Sid’s face.

“I love you.” Sid adds, and it’s the first time he’s said it out loud. Yet Geno’s not surprised--he’s seen it everyday in Sid’s face. They way he’s let Geno in, farther than anyone has gone before. The trust he’s gifted to him. It’s sweeter than the sweetest honey, and is worth more than any paycheck the KHL could have given him to make him stay, alone forever. And Geno replies, so naturally it’s like breathing, “Love you too, Sid.”

And so Geno finds himself wearing leather. Not in the sexy, Queer as Folk way he had envisioned when moving to Pittsburgh, but in the fighting crime in the name of justice way. At least Sid’s there with him, filling out his leather with unholy aplomb and putting Geno’s ass to shame. Geno is bedecked in an all-white costume courtesy of an old woman who used to work at Sid’s old orphanage, who winked at Geno as she handed over the outfit and said, “Kick their asses, Sonny!”  

And so that’s how Pittsburgh gained a new hero, and the people got a crime-fighting team called the Penguin...and the Seal.

Well, it’s a start.

****

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> [and music for this fic!](http://8tracks.com/yukonecho/not-gonna-stand-here-and-wait)


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